I forgive you. I love you.
Doubt anything, but do not doubt that.
Thamos
Leesha read it three times, vision clouding as her eyes filled with tears. The sob burst from her despite her best efforts, and she dropped the paper, covering her face. Briar moved to her, holding her much as she had him.
Araine bent and snatched the paper from the ground, grunting as she read it.
“Will they even give us back his body to bury?” Leesha asked.
Araine pulled her shawl tighter and moved to the window, staring at the gray winter sky. “I expect an emissary will be sent from Krasia soon. If they demand money, we’ll give it to them, no matter the cost.”
“They don’t want money,” Leesha said. “They want war.”
Araine turned and met Leesha’s eyes. “If that’s what they want, we’ll give them that, too. No matter the cost.”
The Krasian emissary came two weeks later, a single dama, escorted by two dal’Sharum. The palace guards confiscated their weapons, eyeing them with open hostility, but the Krasians exuded the infuriating confidence of their people, acting no less haughty unarmed and surrounded by enemies than in their center of power.
Leesha watched them from the royal box, a row of seats behind the throne’s dais. The sun was low in the sky, beneath the high windows of the throne room. The natural light was dim, and her warded spectacles could dimly see their smug auras.
With her were the Duchess Mum, Wonda, and Princess Lorain of Miln. Melny’s flow had still not come, and Araine had forbid her to attend.
This was the first time Leesha had seen the Milnese princess since the news of the Krasian victory. Like Araine, Lorain had known of the attack in advance. Lord Sament was to ride beside Thamos as his cavalry led the charge, and there had been no word of him since.
Lorain had vanished into her heavily guarded embassy, Mountain Spears patrolling the walls and grounds until news of the emissary came. She seemed to have aged in those days. There were dark circles around her eyes that even paint and powder could not fully conceal, but at their center, her stare was hard.
Rhinebeck and his brothers glared down from their dais, but the Krasians were uncowed. The dama strode forward boldly, followed by the Sharum carrying a large lacquered box between them.
Guards stopped the dama before he could halve the distance to the throne, and the man gave a shallow bow. “I am Dama Gorja. I bear a message from my master, and speak with his voice.”
He unrolled a large parchment, beginning to read:
“Greetings Rhinebeck the Third, Duke of Angiers, in the Year of Everam 3784—
“I testify before Everam that you have broken faith with the Creator and His children on Ala, attacking on sacred Waning in the night, when all men are brothers. In accordance with Evejan law, you must die for this.”
There were angry rumbles through the court at that, but Dama Gorja ignored them, continuing to read:
“But Everam’s mercy is infinite, and His divine justice need not extend to your people, with whom we have ever wished only friendship and brotherhood. Set your affairs in order and kill yourself for ordering this abomination. On the first day of spring, your successor will deliver your head to me and be allowed to touch his forehead to the carpet at my feet. Do this, and your people will be spared. Fail, and we will hold all Angiers responsible, and bring Everam’s infinite justice down upon you all.
“I await your response—Jayan asu Ahmann am’Jardir am’Kaji, Sharum Ka of Krasia, Lord of Everam’s Reservoir, firstborn son and rightful heir of Ahmann asu Hoshkamin am’Jardir am’Kaji, also known as Shar’Dama Ka, the Deliverer.”
Rhinebeck’s face was bright red as the dama looked up from the parchment. “You expect me to kill myself?!”
Dama Gorja bowed. “If you love your people and wish them to remain untouched by your crime. But even in the south, it is known that Duke Rhinebeck is fat, corrupt, and seedless, a khaffit who does not deserve his throne. My master expects you to refuse, and invite Everam’s divine wrath.”
“Everam has no sway here, Dama,” Shepherd Pether said.
Dama Gorja bowed. “Apologies, Highness, but Everam holds sway everywhere.”
Rhinebeck looked like he was choking on a chicken bone, his thick-jowled face nearly purple. “Where is my brother’s body?” he demanded.
“Ah, yes,” Dama Gorja said, snapping his fingers. The two Sharum approached the throne with their lacquered box.
Leesha felt a mounting dread as that box drew closer. Janson and half a dozen Wooden Soldiers intercepted it before they made it to the steps, and the Sharum stood impassively as the first minister looked inside.
“Night!” Janson cried, turning away in horror. He snatched a kerchief from his pocket, heaving into it.
“Bring it here,” Rhinebeck commanded, and two of his guards took the box up to the throne. Pether and Mickael stood from their seats, stepping up to see as Rhinebeck opened the box.
Mickael gasped, and Pether heaved. He was not as fast as Janson, catching the bile on his hand and the front of his pristine robes. Rhinebeck only looked coldly at the contents, then waved the box away.
“I’ll see that box, Wonda,” Araine said.
“Ay, Mum,” Wonda said, and she intercepted the guards, steering them to the royal box.
Janson rushed to her. “Your Grace, I do not advise …”
But Araine ignored him, opening the box. Leesha stood quickly. She had already guessed the contents, but the had to see it for herself. The horror inside was what she expected, but worse.
Inside were two great sealed jars of warded glass, filled with what looked like camel’s piss. In one floated Thamos’ head, the other, Lord Sament’s. Thamos’ genitals had been severed and shoved in his mouth. Sament’s mouth was filled with dung.
The sight cut through her like a demon’s talons, but she had hardened her heart, and gave no sign of her pain. Lorain, too, had more anger in her gaze than horror.
The same could not be said for Araine. Leesha had seldom seen a hint of emotion from the woman, but this was too much for even her regal aura to bear. Leesha watched her powerful spirit collapse as she reached out and took the jar with Thamos’ head, clutching it tightly as she wept.
“Guards!” Rhinebeck shouted. “Drag these desert rats to the dungeons!”
Dama Gorja’s aura changed at the words, his smug arrogance changing to a thrill of victory. He had been hoping for this response. Goading it, even.
Gorja bowed deeply to the dais. “Thank you, Highness. I was prepared to simply leave, as it is written in the Evejah that an emissary is as a man in the night, inviolate. Even in your heathen culture, these rights are granted a Messenger. As your guest, I could not honorably strike at you.” He smiled. “But since you choose to compound your crime, I am free to kill you myself.”
Rhinebeck’s snort of derision caught in his throat as Gorja whipped around, driving the heel of his hand into the nose of the closest guard. Cartilage crumpled and bone shattered, the shrapnel driven into his brain. Leesha saw his aura wink out, and he fell to the floor, dead.
The two Sharum exploded into action as well, breaking bones and bending joints in directions they were not meant to go.
Dama Gorja was at the steps of the dais by then, moving with impossible speed. Janson produced a knife from somewhere, but Gorja caught his wrist and pulled, hardly slowing his stride as he flipped the first minister onto his back on the hard stairs and continued.
He could have taken the knife, Leesha knew, but Evejan clerics were forbidden to use bladed weapons. Gorja needed no weapon in any event. His aura flared brightly when he began his attack. There was magic at work.
In an eyeblink, the dama was on Rhinebeck, landing heavy blows. The duke’s aura had already winked out as the force of the leap tipped the great chair back. Gorja took no chances, continuing to punch as he rode it down atop the duke. By the time they hit the dais floor, Rhinebeck’s head looked l
ike a melon cast from the South Tower.
Mickael leapt to his feet. The prince was fitter than Rhinebeck, larger than Gorja and with greater reach. He grabbed the dama roughly by his shoulders, attempting to pull him off his brother.
Gorja barely looked back, backhanding Mickael with a closed fist. There was little leverage to the blow, but the lower half of Mickael’s face exploded with a crack and burst of blood, teeth, bone, and flesh left hanging in a ruined mass.
The dama planted his foot, using the momentum of his rise to add force as he whipped around and sank his fist into Mickael’s chest. The sound of his ribs shattering echoed from the ceiling as the prince was thrown from the dais. He landed twenty feet away, aura snuffed like a candle.
Shepherd Pether attempted to flee, but the dama caught his robes and casually flung him back into his seat. “Stay, infidel, that we may further debate Everam’s sway.”
It happened so fast the duke and prince were dead even as Leesha was rising to her feet, but as Gorja gripped the front of the Shepherd’s robes and raised his fist, she lifted her hora wand and let loose a blast of magic that lifted the dama off his victim and threw him clear across the room. He struck the wall, cracking stone and leaving a great webbed crater as he fell to the floor.
Leesha felt the burst of magical feedback buck up her arm, filling her with strength. She felt giddy with it, until the baby kicked hard in response. She gasped, clutching her stomach.
The Sharum had killed the guards by now, though one had taken the thrust of a spear in the fighting, bleeding but not out of the fight. Other guards rushed forward, but they would not be in time to save Pether as the freshly armed Sharum rushed up the steps to finish the dama’s work and end Rhinebeck’s line.
“Corespawn you!” Leesha was terrified of what the magic might be doing to her child, but she could not stand by. Again she raised the wand, loosing two more blasts that picked off the assassins one by one.
The baby was beating the inside of her belly like a drum, as if it were trying to burst free months early—and might manage it. Leesha was weeping as she lowered the wand again, wrapping her arms around the lump of her stomach.
“Mistress, look out!” Wonda cried. Leesha raised her gaze, seeing Gorja, scorched and bloody but still bright with power, kill two guards and race her way.
An arrow streaked over Leesha’s shoulder, aimed right for the dama’s heart, but Gorja swatted it aside like an annoying horsefly.
“Corespawn it,” Wonda growled, dropping her bow and charging in front of Leesha, meeting the dama head-on.
Gorja thought to shove past her as he had the others trying to hinder him, but Wonda’s armor was infused with demon bone she could draw upon for strength and speed, just as the dama appeared to be doing. She caught his arm and twisted into a throw.
But Gorja never lost control, shifting to meet the new attack. He leapt ahead of the throw, kicking Wonda in the face and landing in position for a throw of his own.
“No you don’t!” Wonda said, throwing her weight against the move and keeping her feet. The dama adjusted as well, until Wonda surged back in, smashing his nose with her forehead.
At last the dama was off balance, and she put him on the ground hard, cracking the stone floor. The dama contorted on the rebound, hooking Wonda’s ankle and bringing her down as well.
The dama paid for the move, Wonda landing atop him and pumping short, powerful punches into his body. She bashed his head into the stone again.
But Gorja was squirming around even as she pummeled him, and kicked up suddenly, crossing his legs around her throat. Wonda was pulled back with a choked gasp, hitting the ground flailing as Gorja added torque to the hold.
Wonda could not reach the dama to attack, clutching helplessly at his legs as he strangled her to death.
The child still wild in her belly, Leesha dared not use the wand again, but neither could she let Wonda die. She looked frantically for a weapon, but Lorain had beaten her to it. The thickset woman had taken her chair by the back, and she struck hard with it.
Again the dama shifted, getting a forearm up in time to block the blow. The chair shattered against it, and Gorja grabbed the front of the princess’ dress, pulling her down as well. He put his arm across her throat, cutting off her air even as his legs continued to choke the life from Wonda.
Leesha was moving before she knew it, magic filling her limbs with an inhuman surge of strength. She forgot about the baby, about Thamos, about her Gatherer’s oath. Her whole world shrank to a single target. Dama Gorja’s head.
Her stomp drove it down into his chest. Leesha felt vertebrae pop as the impact whipped down his spine, and at last the dama collapsed.
The room fell silent, but for the three women gasping for breath. Wonda and Lorain were taking great lungfuls, but Leesha’s breathing was sharp and quick, like the beating of her heart. She stood there, knowing the fight was over, but struggling to control a mix of anger, adrenaline, and magic that threatened to overwhelm her. She wished there were more foes to fight, as if the power might tear her apart if she did not give it release. Night, was this what Wonda and the others felt when magic-drunk in battle? It was terrifying.
Around the room, everyone stared at the scene, dumbstruck. Even Araine had lifted her tear-filled eyes from the jar at her lap, staring openmouthed at Leesha. She could see fear of her in their auras, and could not blame them.
The darkening room was alive with magic, swirling angrily in the air, drawn to the violence. Leesha shut her eyes to block it out, forcing her breaths to deepen. The baby continued to kick and squirm violently.
Caught up in the magic, Leesha could feel the life within her like never before. It was strong. The magic had obviously not harmed it, but that did not mean the effect was good. Leesha had seen magic force children into their full growth before their time. Might the baby come early, too big to birth without dangerous surgery? Or would the power wreak some other change? Arlen had feared this when he refused to be with her, and now Leesha was left with the same problem without him.
She shook off the problem for later, opening her eyes and helping Lorain to her feet. Wonda was already on one knee, and held a hand out to forestall aid.
“Don’ worry about me, mistress.” She gulped another great breath. “Be fine in a minute.”
Leesha could see the magic coursing through the woman, drawn naturally to her injuries, and knew it for true. She let Wonda have her pride, turning to the corpse of Dama Gorja.
Even now, she felt nothing. She had incinerated two of his men, and crushed the dama’s spine. These were not demons, but human men. Still, there was none of the guilt she might have felt in a more introspective moment. These men would happily have murdered everyone in the room as easily as Leesha might pluck herbs from the dirt.
One of the dama’s fists remained tightly clenched, and she pried it open to find a crumbled bit of demon bone, its power expended. She blew softly, and it was swept away like dust.
At last, Janson shook himself, stumbling up the steps of the dais. He looked down at the body of Rhinebeck, shuddered, and reached into the gore for the lacquered wooden circlet the duke had worn.
“The duke is dead!” the first minister cried. He descended a step, reaching out to help Shepherd Pether to his feet. “Long live Duke Pether!”
Shepherd Pether looked at him, confusion and fear in his aura. “Eh?”
There wasn’t enough left of any of the royal brothers for a proper interment, and three royal funerals too much for even the ivy throne to bear. A week after the attack, the city still on lockdown, Thamos, Rhinebeck, and Mickael were given rites as at the great Cathedral of Angiers.
Pether himself presided over the service, seeing no conflict in keeping his position as Shepherd of the Tenders of the Creator even as the wooden crown was placed upon his brow. After the initial shock wore off, he assigned artisans to create new raiment and ceremonial armor to befit his dual status.
Leesha stood stra
ight-backed and stone-faced on the receiving line after the service. She had wept for Thamos privately, but her grief was not something she was ready to share. She accepted the condolences of Angierian Royals whose names she did not know or care to know, smiling wanly and giving a brief, mechanical squeeze of her hand before dismissing them by turning her eyes to the next in line.
Still, the line seemed endless. She did her duty and endured it all, but she was hollow inside.
Back in her rooms, she collapsed on her bed, only to be roused a moment later by Wonda. “Sorry to disturb, Mistress Leesha, but Mum wants to see you.”
Leesha climbed wearily to her feet, checking her hair and arching her back before leaving her chambers again, not giving a hint of what she was feeling to the servants and guards in the hall. They were in mourning, too, and needed to see her strong.
Lorain was sitting before the Duchess Mum as Leesha entered the receiving room. The Milnese princess looked at Leesha and nodded, but her eyes said more. There was something between them, now. Not friendship, perhaps, but trust. And a mutual debt.
Lorain turned back to Araine, resuming their conversation as if Leesha were not there. “Will His Grace agree?”
“The crown’s ballooned the boy’s already swollen head, but it’s a head my son wants to keep. Pether may prefer sticking boys dressed as girls, but if it will get your father to send us a few thousand Mountain Spears …”
Lorain nodded. “I’m no more interested in his touch than he is in mine, but if it will pay those desert rats back for what they did to my husband, Pether can bring his bugger boys to bed with us for all I care.”
Araine grunted. “You will never take the throne. Not even as regent, should you produce a son not fully grown when Pether dies.”
Lorain nodded. “My father may want a claim to your throne, but I do not. I will never be denied access to the boy, though. And my children will be brought here and live in the palace with their full royal status.”
“Of course,” Araine agreed. “But their title will be honorary, with no Angierian lands or positions accorded to them beyond what they earn.”
Demon Cycle 04 - The Skull Throne Page 66