by Ellyn, Court
The physician’s fingers paused on a spool of thread. Scissors snipped a long strand. “The lieutenant will recover.”
Turning out the infirmary door, Lothiar found Lasharia pacing the hallway. Her golden curls lay soft upon the black steel of her armor. Her left hand clenched the pommel of the sword at her side. “Bad news?” he asked.
She saluted. Her eyes strayed to the infirmary door. “Are we going to lose him?”
“Iryan? Of course not. Dathiel cost him an ear, no more.”
“Wasted effort, sir, I’m sorry.”
“Dashka is no tactician. I should not have expected him to be. But you didn’t come to apologize about Iryan losing the avedrin.”
“No. Some of the naenion have come to blows, sir. A squabble over campsites, it would seem.”
“How many is ‘some’?” They walked briskly from the royal infirmary and along a grand gallery bright with sunlight. Blushing lady’s lips vine climbed the row of columns, filling the damp morning air with a honey-scented perfume. Medicinal herbs grew in tidy rows around the basin of a fountain. A lovely place to convalesce. Of course, without groundskeepers to look after it, the fountain lay stagnant. Three falcons met wing to wing, but their open beaks spewed silence instead of water.
“A company from Dragon Claw and another from Storm Mount,” Lasharia replied.
“A company—?” ‘Come to blows’ was an understatement, then. The clans had opened battle on each other. “Haven’t they learned to cooperate by now? When did naenion become so particular? I will not be sorry, Lasharia, when our need for them is over.”
“Nor I, sir.”
“Has the fighting stopped?”
“They were licking their wounds when I left. You’re the only one they listen to.”
Which meant less sleep for him. “Tell Dragon Claw they are to camp on the south side of the Green, and Storm Mount on the north. They are not to cross the avenue into each other’s camp. Spell it out for them if you must, then read very slowly what you spell for them.”
Lasharia grinned at the quip.
“I will be down shortly to reinforce my order, but now I have an emperor to visit.”
Lasharia paused on the gravel path between rows of lavender. Though it was still too early for the buds to sprout, the shrubs smelled refreshing in the warm morning sun. “That’s another thing, sir. Valryk used the sigil to contact me again. That’s four times since he’s been locked up. I wish we had found another method of communicating with him. He’ll drive me mad.”
Lothiar sympathized. He was not the only one sick of maddening whispers. It was not King Valryk who taunted him, however. Who then? “Have you visited him?”
“Not without your leave.”
“Good. He’s not liable to listen to your kind of persuasion right now. I’ll take care of it.” He started across a wide cobbled courtyard. The dilapidated prison tower rose near the curtain wall, its slate roof sagging, its plaster sloughing off the brick. Lasharia’s voice stopped him.
“You won’t … hurt him. Will you?”
His sister had asked him that once concerning a certain avedra. He’d told her no, but afterward he sent an assassin and a rágazeth. Had he reason to lie to Lasharia? He hoped not. “No more than necessary. He’s not your plaything, Lieutenant. Let it go. Busy yourself organizing the na’in camps.”
Paggon Ironfist sat outside the cell door, meticulously sharpening a four-inch-wide serrated greatsword. Each tine received his patient attention with a slender file. His massive shoulders straightened and his eyes blinked dully at Lothiar’s approach. “You didn’t use that on him, did you?” Lothiar asked as Paggon slid away the sword.
“Dis naeni want to, but Lot’iar be angry. King squeal, hurt dis naeni ear. All day. All night. Him quiet now.”
Yes, Lothiar heard only silence beyond the iron-banded door. “The key.”
Paggon fished inside his breastplate and lifted the delicate chain with one thick finger.
“The chamber is prepared below. If the Black Falcon feels stubborn, I’ll summon you. Until then, stay out here.”
Inside the cell Lothiar found Valryk slumped in his armchair before a cold hearth, asleep. His boots lay in front of the door, likely some of the items he had used to beat on it. One of the dining chairs appeared to be another; the frame was cracked and twisted, and two of the legs had broken off. On the table, beside platters of food, awaited the sheets of parchment, an inkpot and quill, and the royal seal. These remained untouched. Lothiar didn’t mind; he hadn’t told the king what to write yet, but they gave him something to think about.
Lothiar nudged him with his toe. Valryk stirred, groaning, then woke like a spark from a flint. “You!” He flung himself out of the armchair, shook the grogginess from his head. The rich plum-colored doublet was badly rumpled; the chain of silver roses laid askew on his shoulders, and coppery fuzz grew on his chin. “It’s about time, Goddess curse you. I’m starving. That beast of yours brought me stale bread and sour wine, but I dared not touch it after he did.”
“Oh? You’re not hungry enough then.” Lothiar inspected the bread in question and tore a chunk from its heart. He hadn’t eaten this morning either.
“I want leg of lamb and proper Doreli wine. What happened to my wine store?” He gestured at the sideboard. The doors to the cupboards stood open, displaying empty racks.
Lothiar set the bread aside. It was a trifle stale. “You won’t be entertaining in here anymore. I had the wine taken back to the cellar.”
Valryk jabbed a finger. “You had no right.”
“Ah, yes. Rights and fairness. The expectations of children. This is war, and you are my prisoner. I have every right to treat you as I see fit. And so far, I have granted you luxuries, comforts, freedom from pain and darkness. But these things can be taken away.”
“Is this what you call luxury and comfort?”
“There may come a time, emperor, when you beg for a cell like this.”
“Unlikely. And stop calling me that. You never meant to keep your word. I may have to endure this cell, but I will not listen to mockery.”
“Certainly, Your Majesty. Let us not argue over matters of perspective, but rather talk about your options.” Lothiar pulled out the one remaining chair at the table and gestured for Valryk to fill it.
He glared at Lothiar a long while, cursing him without muttering a word, before giving in.
“Now, your cousin the duke will send summons to his militias in a few days, and he needs to know what to do with them. Wine?” Lothiar squirted some of the thin red wine from the skin into the horn cup on the table. All the silver chalices and bejeweled goblets had been removed.
Valryk ignored the offer but clenched his fists to each side of his neglected plate.
“The Evaronnan army is our reserve, sire. They will be useful against Leania’s rebels.”
“Your reserve.”
Lothiar sipped from the cup. “Yes. Mine.”
“Kethlyn won’t fight for you.”
“He will if you tell him to.”
Valryk chuckled. “ ‘If’ is a vital word. Let me out of here, and we’ll see about your letter. You won’t get a thing from me unless you give me what I want, and what I want is to be in my own chambers with frequent visits from Lasharia and her harp. That’s not so much.”
“Lasharia spoke with me moments before I came to see you. She said she wished you would stop summoning her.”
“I won’t. Not until she comes.”
“She won’t help you escape, Your Majesty. Or would you seduce her now, in hopes of convincing her? I told you the truth when I said she was sick of you. She is happy that her assignment is over. So you see? These are poor terms. A stronger negotiation is this one: write the letter and I will permit you to keep your skin, your teeth, your bones, all unbroken.” Lothiar smiled oh-so-sweetly.
Valryk swallowed, turning a fraction grayer so that the red freckles across his nose stood out. The cogs in his head whirl
ed. “Look, I’ll pay you!”
“For what?” Lothiar crossed his arms. The offer bordered on insult. Who did this dwínovë think he was talking to?
“For freedom, of course. I’ll ransom myself. You don’t need me. You have those magic doors. You can communicate with Kethlyn yourself, anytime you want.”
So the Black Falcon tosses his own cousin under the horse’s hooves, does he? Remarkable gallantry. Lothiar leaned heavily on the table. “If I should agree, with what will you pay me? You think I don’t know your treasury is almost empty? You spent it all building that new wing.” He pointed at the high, narrow window. “Didn’t you smell the smoke yesterday? That was your coin turning to ash. You have nothing left to bribe me with. Write the letter.”
Valryk looked down at the broken loaf of bread. “I can’t.”
“Of course you can. You don’t even have to think what to say. It’s only a matter of dictation.”
“No.”
Lothiar pushed himself back from the table. “I told you once that I have never begged for anything in my life. That means I ask only so many times.” He nudged the inkwell closer to the king. “Dip the quill and write what I tell you to write.”
Valryk folded his hands in his lap, a smug little grin settling on his mouth. “Write it yourself.”
Nodding, Lothiar leaned in and whispered, “Remember, when you think about how much you hate me, remember that you chose this. You chose this.”
Valryk reared back to spit in his face, but Lothiar turned for the door. Paggon opened it at his knocking. “Fetch him and follow me.”
On the bottom floor of the prison tower, next door to the warden’s former headquarters, lay what used to be the torture chamber. Rhorek the Benevolent had ordered all the devices destroyed, but one didn’t need racks and iron maidens to make a man hurt. Paggon tossed the king onto a dusty table and bound him to it with thick rope across his chest, thighs, and ankles.
“You can’t be serious!” Valryk roared.
Lothiar struck a spark over a torch and used it to light the coals in a small brazier he had found in the guards’ barracks. Red flames cast lurid light on damp stone walls, rusted chains, broken planks, and wheels whose purpose was now forgotten. A pair of meat hooks still swung from the ceiling.
Valryk squirmed inside the ropes. “It’s just a letter! You can’t mean to do this.”
“It’s a matter of obedience, sire. As long as you withhold what I need from you, you feel the pain. Understand? It’s simple, and it’s up to you how long it lasts.” He jabbed a flatiron into the coals, but he expected Valryk to capitulate before the iron turned red. “Paggon, listen to me.”
Blood-colored eyes stopped watching Valryk struggle. His grin waned, and he granted Lothiar his attention.
“You are a clever na’in, but I do not expect you to know how writing works. For the little king to write our letter, he needs the use of his hands and the arms attached to them. You cannot harm those, understood?”
Paggon studied the human while scrubbing his nose with a scabby knuckle.
“His feet, though, his legs, his knees, you can do what you want with those. But, Paggon, do not get too enthusiastic. If you should kill him, I will be very, very angry with you.”
“Dis naeni make Lot’iar happy.”
Lothiar double-checked the tension on the ropes, then leaned over the king. “Paggon has never disappointed me, but there’s always a first time.”
Sweat streamed down Valryk’s brow, into his hair. His shouts had diminished into whimpers. “Tell Kethlyn yourself. Please. Order him to do whatever you want. You don’t need me!”
“See you in a bit.” Lothiar patted his shoulder, then started for the door.
Valryk remembered his defiance. “Coward! Stay and do it yourself!”
“Like you stayed and murdered your people with your own hand? What was your excuse to leave them to their fate? Ah, yes. I’ll think I’ll do the same. Paggon, gently now.”
Funny, Lothiar thought as he positioned himself in front of the bottomless hole in the warden’s privy, the screams of a king sound just like the screams of an elf.
~~~~
That night, he was finally able to retire. The most pressing matters had been resolved. The ogre regiments were settled in separate camps, and their bellies were full. A handful of humans from the city guard had been dragged from the dungeons and dealt out to the clans with several hundred horses, sheep, and dogs. Each Elaran lieutenant had received his orders. Through the marsh water in the basin, Lothiar ordered Tréandyn and Elyandir to squeeze harder those gates that would not crack. Now that Ilswythe had fallen, Solandyr was to send half of his Red Axe ogres to Tírandon and lend a little help to Broke Blade. Ruvion reported capturing an avedra boy who had been hiding within Ilswythe’s walls. And King Valryk had written his letter, a little shaky in the hand to be sure, but true to Lothiar’s wishes. In gratitude, Lothiar wrapped the king’s blistered, oozing feet himself and gifted him with a bottle of Doreli red laced with poppy wine.
One of the grunts Lothiar recruited from the Regs rode north with the letter. Da’ith had been all too eager for Lothiar to remove the red marks from his eyes and cheekbones when he left Linndun all those years ago. “Following Captain Tíryus’s orders is a waste of time,” Da’ith had claimed. “What is the point of training to be a soldier if one never gets to fight? I tried joining the Dranithion but none of their captains would have me. ‘We defend,’ they said.” Da’ith spat, telling Lothiar what he thought of that philosophy.
The youngster ought to be riding past Ilswythe about now with the king’s letter tucked into his satchel, and Lothiar had the rest of the night to himself.
He had reserved the king’s suite. The falcon device was everywhere. Embroidered on the hems of the bedclothes, drapes, and towels. Woven into tapestries, upholstery, and rugs. Etched into silver combs and mirrors and cologne bottles. Inlaid with onyx in silver sconces and candelabra. Molded into the ceiling coffers, even into bars of soap that the Black Falcon apparently never used more than once.
The repetition of the poor bird screamed of ego, but the spacious, decadent luxury of the rooms suited Lothiar just fine. After sleeping in caves and tunnels for more than twenty years, the rugs felt like sponges under his toes, the feather mattress like clouds, and how clean everything smelled.
He removed only his sword belt before he stretched out across the wide, soft bed. Not even the bath steaming in the tiled pool enticed him. Baths could wait. It was sleep he needed. Two Storm Mount ogres were stationed outside his door to ensure that he got it. If only his mind stopped spinning with the next task at hand, and the next, and the next. Lock it away for tomorrow. Ah, yes, there it was, that warm, snug cocoon. He drifted away in it.
“Azhdyr…”
His eyes sprang open. “No!” he cried, smashing his hands over his ears. “Leave me be!”
Azhdyyyyyr…
He scrambled off the bed, spun, searching the shadows. “Who the hell are you? Let me sleep. Please!”
Azhdyr, I bring words.
A silver light grew where no lamp shone. Thyrra herself seemed to have climbed down from the sky and rolled into the chamber on her pregnant belly. A woman stood inside it—or, no, was it a youth? Yes, a youth, tall and willowy. Folds of a silver robe fell in soft, watery ripples, covering even his toes and his hands. Inside a deep hood, his face appeared to be as silver as his garments, and his eyes shone with many colors, like opals.
“I’m dreaming…,” Lothiar muttered even though he knew it wasn’t so.
“Lothiar, son of Danyth and Leavhan, I am Rashén Varél.”
The name meant nothing to him. But the sound of this creature’s voice skimmed along his skin like a winter breeze. Avë, the sound was made of avë, pure and powerful. He never knew such a coalescence of magical energy could exist in the sound of a word. Lothiar bowed under the weight of it, sank to his knees beside the bed. He had no choice.
“You…,”
he breathed. “It was you. I don’t understand. Who are you? Why do you torment me?”
“I knew well your Lady Dorelia before she left the Forbidden Lands. I was a friend to your people, though I could not save them. Now I act as the Mother-Father’s messenger. She has sent me to question you.”
“Question me? What for?” Ana-Forah should send praise, not questions.
The creature glided forward. “Why do you do this? Why do you insist on this course of flight? Do you not know that it upsets the balance that pleases the Mother-Father?”
This made no sense. It was Amanthia who was unhappy with him. She wept blood tears and pleaded with him. How could the Goddess be displeased? Her people suffered. Lothiar fought to right that wrong.
Rashén gave him no time to puzzle it out. “She demands an answer.”
“I do this for her!” he blurted, anger blooming in his face. Why should he have to justify his motives to this spirit, this nightmare?
“Do you mean Ana-Forah? Or Amanthia?” Soft blue light quivered inside those opal eyes like tears. “No, Azhdyr, you do these things in their name, but it is not for them. You do this for yourself.”
“If you know, then why ask? And I don’t care who you are, do not speak her name to me again.” Lothiar struggled to his feet, held onto the bedpost because he was tired of kneeling before this creature. “Humanity must be shown its place!”
Rashén’s head tilted at an odd angle, one that seemed impossible. But, then, nightmares were made of nonsense, not bones. “What do you know of humanity’s place, child?”
“I am no child. I have walked this continent for more than a millennium, and I have watched as humanity stole everything that belonged to us. Our homes, our freedom, our courage.”
A note that might have been a sigh of sorrow rose from Rashén’s throat. “How little you know, Azhdyr. I see now what the Mother-Father hoped I might learn on my own. The Great Forgetting reaches its apex in you, Lothiar. Your actions are its pivot.”