by Mike Brooks
This was where the hole was. Shé’d remembered wrong, and had been looking in the wrong section, but Sa had been watching over hér. Shé whispered a quick prayer to hér benefactor, then turned to Galem.
“Did yòu see them?” shé asked breathlessly.
“See who?” Galem replied, frowning past hér shoulder into the darkness.
“Sa,” Jeya said. “They showed us the way!”
“Ì didn’t see anything,” Galem muttered uncertainly, but there was no mistaking the entrance the god had led them to. The hole was near-circular, with only the ancient mortar providing a somewhat suspect anchor for the stone blocks overhead.
“And yóu’re sure it’s not haunted?” Galem asked again.
“As sure as Í can be,” Jeya replied, and to hìs credit, Galem began climbing through without any further questions. Jeya cursed the poor light which meant shé couldn’t clearly see hìs karung drawn tight over hìs buttocks. “Besides,” shé added, following hìm, “Í thought Naridans didn’t fear the spirits of the dead?” It was a belief Jeya had always found astonishing. On the spirit nights, when both moons were dark, the barriers between the worlds of living and dead were at their weakest, and restless souls who’d strayed from Jakahama’s light in the crossing would try to return, driven by the ravenous ache in their bellies. An Alaban would say their prayers and cast their salt, and hope the hungry dead didn’t come knocking. Jeya had heard more than one argument about whether Naridans were endangering others, since they lit up their homes and called the spirits to them, or whether the hungry dead would flock to them and leave other, more sensible people alone.
“We honour the spirits of our ancestors,” Galem replied. Hè looked to have found the crawlspace under the hedge of hìs own accord, and was still moving. “Other people’s ancestors may not be so benign.” Hè scrabbled through to the other side and got to hìs feet, then Jeya heard hìs intake of breath. “By the Mountain…”
Jeya smiled tightly as shé wriggled through, and came up beside hìm with the stolen clothes still in hér hand. The wild hedge had grown up around the Old Palace, hiding most of it from sight. Seeing the full building with your own eyes was a moment not to be quickly forgotten, even under moonlight rather than sunlight. Or perhaps especially under moonlight, shé thought, as the same old wonder stirred in hér heart.
Alaba had monarchs once, before the Hierarchs, and they’d lived here until one of them, their name now burned from history, had become too cruel. The people had risen up and overthrown them; not only killing the monarch but also their nobles, and the guards who hadn’t either thrown down their weapons or joined the cause, as well as looting the palace. When the first Hierarchs had risen to power in the chaos that followed, they’d wanted a clean start to symbolise their break from the old ways, and so the New Palace had been built. The Old Palace had been abandoned, left to crumble away while the savage ghosts of those killed that night roamed its grounds, looking for vengeance on the unwary.
It had crumbled, certainly, but it still held majesty. The Old Palace had been built with a deep bank of earth on top of it, in which a garden had been planted. In the years since—decades, or maybe even centuries, Jeya wasn’t exactly sure—the garden had grown out of control, and now resembled any other patch of Alaban forest.
Great trees, all that could normally be seen of the Old Palace from the street, towered skywards. Their massive roots embraced and, in some cases, punched through the very stone of the palace as they quested downwards in search of greater nourishment than the comparatively shallow soil in which they’d first sprouted. Between and around their trunks nestled thick clumps of shrubs, while the pale stone of the palace walls, silvery in the moonlight, was streaked with the dark tendrils of vines reaching down as though in imitation of their neighbours’ roots.
The grounds of the palace had not gone uncolonised, either. What had once been lawns were now choked with growth as thick as that on top of the palace itself. The gravel beds and wide, paved terraces offered less opportunity for plants, but even here there were enterprising shoots and seedlings making the best of what little footing they could find.
Others spoke of the Old Palace in hushed tones, as though the spirits said to haunt it might hear the speaker and stray beyond the walls. Jeya had never felt any threat from it, not from the moment shé’d first pushed her way through the wild hedge. To hér, the Old Palace was a place of peace. Shé couldn’t explain why, but shé was sure whatever spirits had once roamed its grounds must have long since found their way to rest amongst the life that had grown up here.
“It’s beautiful,” Galem said.
“Í know,” Jeya agreed, delighted hè felt the same way. Shé looked around for Sa, but the god was nowhere to be seen. Jeya closed hér eyes and whispered a quick prayer of thanks.
“Why does no one come here?” Galem asked. “Ì mean, Ì know the stories of spirits, but…” Hè gestured at the palace.
“People do come here,” Jeya told hìm, opening hér eyes again. “Í’ve come here many times, and so do others. Sometimes it’s the only place to sleep. There’ll probably be one or two in there now.”
“Then why are we here?” Galem asked, suddenly apprehensive.
“Because rich people don’t come here,” Jeya said. “Rich people have their own roofs and beds, so they don’t need to risk the spirits.”
“Are yóu assuming the people hunting mè are rich?” Galem asked dubiously.
“No,” Jeya told hìm, “I’m assuming they’re going to try to think like a rich person would, once they realise yòu’re not in yòur house. A rich person wouldn’t think to hide here, and they won’t know yòu’re with mé.”
Galem nodded slowly. “Ì’m glad Ì’m with yóu.” Hè reached out and took hér hand. “And not just because yóu’re helping mè. Or because yóu’re beautiful. Thank yóu for… just being a friend.”
Jeya found it hard to speak for a moment. Then shé tugged at hìs hand and pulled hìm after hér. “Come on. There’s a place rainwater collects. We can drink, and wash our faces, and yòu can change yòur clothes.”
It had been a bathing pool once, Jeya supposed: a stone-sided, rectangular hollow with steps down into it on one side, sitting midway along the raised terrace on the palace’s east side. Small, dark shapes scuttled away as they approached, but Jeya was less bothered about rats than shé was people. Still, everything seemed quiet and tranquil.
Shé knelt down and cupped a few handfuls of water into hér mouth, because running had given hér a powerful thirst. Galem crouched and joined hér, and they drank together in silence.
“Should Ì change now?” Galem asked quietly.
“Yes,” Jeya agreed. Better to get hìm out of his rich-person clothes before anyone saw hìm in them. Shé passed hìm the stolen maijhi and karung. “Let’s get inside.”
“Are yóu certain it’s safe?” Galem was eyeing the crumbling palace dubiously.
“Of course it’s not safe,” Jeya laughed. “If it was safe, everyone would come here. But it’s safer than some places, and yòu probably don’t want to change yòur clothes out here, do yòu?”
Galem looked around at the garden, highlighted here and there in moon-silver but mainly drenched in impenetrable shadows, and shuddered. “No.”
“Come on, then,” Jeya said, taking hìs hand again.
Despite hér assertions, she still found herself creeping up to the gaping, empty doorway that led out onto the terrace where the pool sat: the wood of the doors had rotted away to nothing, and only the deeply corroded metal bracings remained, still strewn across the entrance where they’d fallen. There was something about the sheer size of the Old Palace that made you feel you didn’t belong, for all that the old monarchs were long gone and the spirits of the dead, if they still lingered, had never bothered Jeya yet.
Once over the threshold, the entire building seemed to be holding its breath around them. The moonlight flooded in through windows, but did little to g
ive an idea of the space they were in. Jeya had been here in the daytime and knew it as a wide hall, long since emptied of anything of value and punctuated by large, square pillars, but at this hour it was little more than blackness broken up by pale, slanting shafts.
“Wait,” Galem said, as shé moved further into the darkness. “Ì need to see what Ì’m doing.” Hè hesitated, and Jeya immediately understood why. They’d kissed many times now, with great passion on some occasions and delicate tenderness on others, but hér hands had rarely slipped under hìs clothes, and never far. Nor had hè ever disrobed in any way. Perhaps it was hìs Naridan stiffness, or perhaps it was something unique to hìm. Either way, despite the aching desire shé felt for hìm at times, shé’d never pushed further than hè was comfortable.
“Í’ll look away,” shé assured hìm, and turned to regard the deep shadows of the palace’s interior. Probably for the best: there might be someone else in here somewhere, and you never knew what kind of person it might be.
“Thank yóu,” Galem muttered, with what sounded like a mix of gratitude and shame. Shé heard the slither of cloth as hè stripped off hìs own maijhi.
“So if yòu’re the Splinter Prince,” Jeya asked softly, “what does that actually mean?”
“One hundred and seventy-four years ago, the God-King of Narida died without a trueborn child,” Galem said. “The divinity was known to be carried from father to father.”
Jeya nodded, then realised that hè might not even be looking at hér. “So what happened?”
“A member of the Divine Court came forward claiming the God-King had lain with hēr, outside of both their marriages, and that hēr child Natan was actually the God-King’s blood,” Galem continued. “Perhaps it was true. A lot of court officials suddenly claimed to know of the God-King’s infidelity. Others said there was no proof the child was divine, and the lady simply wanted to advance hēr own family. They pointed to the God-King’s younger brother, Akab, and said the divine blood was with hìm.”
Jeya frowned. “Í don’t know much about gods, but it doesn’t sound like they were going to agree.”
Galem snorted. “They didn’t. The resulting war nearly broke Narida. It became known as the Splintering. In the end, Natan’s supporters won. Akab, hìs mōther and a few of their remaining followers fled here, where the Hierarchs granted shelter to their family. Natan was recognised as the true blood of the old God-King and hè became God-King of Narida in hìs own right, the first of hìs name.”
Hìs voice became bitter. “My family’s lived in the shadows ever since, for fear of the God-King’s knives. They’ve tried again and again to kill us, but always when we’ve been masked, parading around for the Hierarchs at a festival, and someone always lived.” Hìs voice began to break, the tears audible in it. “Tonight they came for our house. They’ve never done that before. They’ve never known who we were!”
“Í am so sorry,” Jeya said, not certain what else shé could say. Shé was fairly sure no one would particularly care if shé lived or died—except Nabanda of course, and Ngaiyu—and shé certainly couldn’t imagine mattering to someone enough for them to repeatedly try to kill hér. Admittedly, that didn’t sound like a good thing.
There was a sob from behind hér, and shé looked around instinctively. Galem had finished changing hìs clothes and had the old ones tucked under hìs arm, but was standing with hìs head in his hands, hìs long, straight hair covering hìs face, and hìs shoulders were shaking.
“Hey,” Jeya said soothingly. Shé moved to hìm in three quick steps and enfolded hìm in hér arms. “Hey.”
“It’s all because of mè,” Galem muttered, hìs voice bubbling with grief.
“That can’t be true,” Jeya told hìm, as firmly as shé thought reasonable.
“It is,” Galem insisted miserably. “It must be. Ì’ve reached majority. That must be why the Naridans tried again. The Hierarchs announced it a few months ago. They were so proud,” hè added, bitterness choking hìs voice again. “A new generation of their pet exiles to gloat about! And look what’s happened!”
Jeya held hìm, and said nothing. Shé’d always assumed the Splinter King’s family were strong allies of the Hierarchs, which was certainly how the relationship was portrayed to the people. Shé’d never considered the exiled Naridan royalty would feel like they were being used.
“We don’t know what’s happened,” shé said, trying to sound reassuring. “It’s not safe for us to go and find out now, but we can in the morning. Yòur family had guards, yes? Yòu told me yòu did.”
“Yes,” Galem admitted.
“Then perhaps the attackers didn’t succeed,” Jeya suggested. Shé didn’t know if shé believed that, but it might be true. “Everything could still work out. But for now, yòu’re safe, and we need to get some sleep so we can do whatever we need to tomorrow.”
“Ì don’t think Ì can sleep,” Galem protested, but Jeya could feel hìm swaying slightly as shé held hìm. Hè was exhausted, and in fairness, shé wasn’t doing much better.
“At least come and sit down,” shé told hìm. Shé tugged at hìs sleeve, pulling hìm towards one of the pillars. “Come. Lie down here.” Shé sat with her back to the pillar and brought hìm down with her, then stuffed hìs old maijhi behind hér back and placed his old karung in hér lap. She patted it. “Lay yòur head here.”
Hè did so. They were in the darkness now, but hér eyes were adjusting a little and shé could see the shadows shift as hè moved hìs body around.
Jeya closed hér eyes. Shé’d slept in far less comfortable places than this. At least this was dry.
“Jeya.”
“Hmm?”
“It’s all a lie.”
Shé opened one eye. “What is?”
“Everything. Everything anyone thinks they know about mè.” Galem made a wet snorting noise, the sound of a half-strangled sob.
Íknow being close to yòuis like morning sunlight, Jeya thought. Í know Í could get lost in yòur eyes for hours. Í know Í would do anything to heal the hurt yòu have right now. But shé didn’t say any of those things, because that didn’t seem to be what Galem meant.
Shé waited for hìm to continue.
All that met hér ears was the sudden, soft change in the rhythm of hìs breathing as sleep pulled hìm under.
DAREL
THE BELL OF the God-King’s shrine was ringing, and Darel Blackcreek couldn’t work out why.
There were no Raiders in sight. Well, there were, but only the ones already here, the ones Daimon had allowed to settle in defiance of tradition, honour and anything approaching common sense. The room in which Darel had been imprisoned for the last two weeks faced north and east, and he could see nothing on the sea to cause alarm. There was no hostile force coming down the North Road. And besides, the people he could see weren’t moving in haste or panic. There was a general movement towards the square, but the gatehouse blocked his view of whatever was taking place.
He really hoped Daimon wasn’t doing anything stupid.
The fields were ready to be planted; that was good. From what Darel had been able to see, it really did look like the Raiders had been pulling their weight. It was hard for him to tell from the keep’s windows, but he could just about make out enough difference in clothing and general appearance to see the Raiders were in the fields, herding livestock, and sailing out to sea to fish on their strange ships. He’d spent the first few days waiting for the Raider chief to order the slaughter of his people, but it hadn’t happened.
Even the Festival of Life appeared to have gone well. The Wooden Man had gone up in flames, and Darel had waited for the laughing and singing to devolve into screams as his revelling, intoxicated countrymen were betrayed and murdered, but no such thing had come to pass. Now, three days later, there was still no sign anyone had suffered anything worse than the traditional sore head.
Darel considered himself a man of learning and reason. He’d studied the works of scholars and gre
at thinkers, such as his father had gathered. He’d read warnings against trusting too much in the power of one’s own intellect, or persisting in a belief despite evidence to the contrary.
He was being forced to conclude the Raiders might not solely be the warlike savages he’d also supposed them to be. It was possible they might have some form of society, might be able to live alongside civilised people if they had appropriate examples to follow. It was a fascinating concept, and one that made him itch to get out of his chambers and study them. Except he couldn’t, of course. Daimon still didn’t trust him not to try to kill everyone, or possibly not to take his own life out of honour. Darel was, to his great shame, glad his law-brother had seen fit to remove anything bladed from the chamber before incarcerating him. He didn’t relish the thought of piercing his own heart with an eating knife.
He was snatched from his reverie by voices outside his door. There’d been much commotion in the castle grounds over the last couple of days, but he’d been unable to ascertain what it had been in aid of. He’d heard Osred’s voice giving instructions, but the steward had never responded when Darel had called his name. He probably felt less conflict to his loyalties if he pretended he couldn’t hear.
There was a metallic jangling, and then a click. Someone was unlocking the door.
Darel looked around instinctively for a weapon, and found nothing save scrolls and bed linen. He snatched up a feather-filled bolster, well aware it was a poor tool, but perhaps it could buy him a moment’s distraction should whoever was entering wish him harm. Daimon would have knocked and called first, probably demanded some assurance that Darel wouldn’t try to kill him on sight; Darel knew this instinctively. So who could this be?
The lock clicked again and the door swung inwards, and Darel raised the bolster.