The runaway heir to the Caelish throne proved only a slightly less troublesome travelling companion than Declan feared. Despite being barely eleven years old—she’d had a birthday while Declan was in the mountains with his grandfather—she was spoiled, snippy and impatient, and expected him to wait on her hand and foot. In fact, she considered her new guardian to be so far below her socially, he suspected she wouldn’t have spoken to him at all, had not her very survival depended on it.
Things changed, however, once they reached Maralyce’s mine. Even Declan found the crushing darkness unnerving. It terrified Nyah. They weren’t in the tunnels more than ten minutes before a small hand snaked into his in the darkness, gripping it with all her eleven-year-old strength, which was considerable. She held on so tight, in fact, that Declan had to warn her to ease up a little, because his fingers were starting to go numb.
Ricard Li’s men had offered to see them clear of the city, but Declan declined his help. As the Caelish spymaster himself had pointed out, his movements were noticed. If nobody knew Declan Hawkes was in the city, then nobody would know to follow him out of it. Once Nyah’s hair had been trimmed to a boyish crop—a traumatic event during which Nyah sat quietly sobbing as her long dark hair fell in ragged clumps onto the cellar floor—and with her dressed in the nondescript clothing of a street urchin, she looked nothing like the girl who’d demanded Declan acknowledge she was in the room.
“How long before we stop for a rest?”
Declan looked down at the little princess, raising the torch higher to see her face more clearly. The darkness was complete, not a thing visible beyond the circle of light thrown by the torch’s steady, golden flames. “A while yet. We’ve only been walking for about an hour.”
“How can you tell?”
“I just can.”
“Are you sure you know where you’re going?”
“Haven’t a clue.”
Even in the inadequate torchlight, Declan caught the fleeting look of panic on Nyah’s face before she realised he was teasing her. “Are you always this disrespectful of your betters?”
“I’m famous for it,” he replied, pulling her forward as he resumed walking. The tunnels were smooth here, and quite wide. They’d yet to reach the narrower parts of the mine which meant crawling on their hands and knees through passageways he could barely squeeze through.
He hadn’t told Nyah about those tunnels yet.
“If you betray me, I’ll have Ricard Li kill you where you stand,” she announced without preamble, about ten minutes later.
“Ricard did mention something about that.” He wasn’t sure if she was threatening him, or just trying to fill the overwhelming silence with conversation and had nothing much else to talk about.
“Or if you try to take advantage of me…”
Declan stopped again, staring down at the child. “Take advantage of you?”
She stuck her chin out defiantly. “I know how the world works. You’re common-born, after all, and I’m a princess…”
Declan rolled his eyes. Tides, what sort of nonsense do the Caelish feed their children? “You’re a right pain in the backside, is what you are, your highness. And in case it’s slipped your notice, you’re a child; a very scared and frightened child, granted, even though you’re too damned stubborn to admit it. But you may put your mind at ease. In Glaeba we prefer to copulate with people old enough to spell the word.”
Oddly, that did little to reassure her. “Don’t you think I’m pretty?”
“I think you’re a child.”
“Lord Tyrone told me I was pretty.”
Declan shook his hand free of hers and pointed down the tunnel back the way they’d come. “Why don’t you go back home and marry him, then, if it’s so important someone thinks you’re pretty. It’s that-away, in case you’re wondering.”
Tears welled up in her eyes, spilling onto her cheeks, streaking the dirt on her face. “Mama was right. All Glaebans are pigs!”
“This would be the same loving mama who arranged for her ten-year-old daughter to marry a Tide Lord?”
“I’m eleven!”
“Whatever.” He lifted the torch and headed down the tunnel again without waiting to see if she was following.
Stranded in the darkness, Nyah wasted no time scurrying after him. “And what do you mean, Mama arranged for me to marry a Tide Lord? The Tide Lords aren’t real. They’re just pictures on Tarot cards.”
Declan cursed his slip of the tongue, and then decided it mattered little. The Tide was on the way back. The whole world would know the truth soon. And this child deserved to know it more than most, even if she was a brat. He stopped and waited for her to catch up. “Your precious Lord Tyrone is really Tryan the Devil. The Grand Duchess of Torfail—she’s Syrolee, Empress of the Five Realms.”
Nyah was impressed. “Does that mean Lady Alysa is really Elyssa, the Immortal Maiden, too?”
“Almost certainly.”
At some point, Nyah’s cold little hand had found its way back into his, and they’d resumed walking. She thought about this new information for a moment and then shook her head. “You’re making this up.”
“Why? Because Mama told you all Glaebans are liars too?”
“Because it doesn’t make sense. If the Tide Lords are real, what are they doing in Caelum? We’re not that important. Wouldn’t they be trying to take over Glaeba?”
“Ah, so you think Glaeba is more important than Caelum, do you?”
“You’re twisting everything I say around.”
“I am,” he said. “That wasn’t very nice of me. And for your information, they are trying to take over Glaeba. Only it’s Jaxyn and Diala—the Lord of Temperance and the High Priestess—who are making themselves at home in my country, which is why I’d really like to get back there.”
She was silent for a time as they walked on through the black, oppressive silence, and then out of nowhere, she said, “I’m sorry about your king and queen being dead.”
The apology surprised him. He glanced down at her. “So am I.”
“Did the Tide Lords kill them?”
“I don’t know for certain, but I’m guessing they had a hand in it.”
She digested that and then asked in a small voice, “Will they kill Mama?”
Declan wasn’t sure how to answer. Or rather, he had no way of knowing how she might react to the truth. In the end, he settled for an answer that lay somewhere between the truth and the reassurance she was looking for. “I suppose it depends on whether or not they perceive the current Queen of Caelum as a threat.”
“Would they have killed me, if I hadn’t run away?”
“Maybe,” he said. “On the other hand, they’re immortal, so they may have been willing to sit back and wait for you to die of old age before they made their move.”
“They didn’t wait for Queen Inala and King Enteny to die of old age.”
“No, they didn’t.”
Once more she fell silent. A short while later, the tunnel widened even further, opening up to a larger cavern, from which three other tunnels branched off. Even though he still had Maralyce’s map, Declan had marked the one he’d come through on the way here, so he decided to stop for a time. He raised the torch to look around, found an ancient wrought-iron bracket set into the wall off to his left to hold it, and ordered Nyah to rest.
“Why are we stopping?”
“The next tunnel is narrower,” he told her. “Much narrower. You need to rest while you can. We’ll be going deeper into the mine from now on, which means it’ll get hotter and occasionally wetter, too. Much as I find you a riveting conversationalist, your highness, there’ll be no strolling along chatting for a while after this.”
Nyah took a drink from the waterskin and passed it back to Declan. She’d stopped wiping his germs off before she drank from it, he noted, biting back a smile.
“I was supposed to marry Prince Mathu, you know,” she said, settling herself against the wall with her kn
ees pulled up under her chin. “Mama was really cranky when Duke Stellan came to tell us he didn’t want me.”
“It had nothing to do with what Mathu wanted, Nyah,” Declan tried to explain. “In Glaeba, we toss men in gaol for marrying little girls, we don’t give them a crown for it.”
“Why do you keep calling me a little girl?”
“Because—by Glaeban standards, at any rate—you are a little girl.”
“Does that mean I’ll be treated like a little girl when we get to Glaeba?”
“We certainly won’t be lining up potential husbands for you.”
She looked rather worried to learn that. “What will happen to me then?”
Declan shrugged. “We’ll arrange something.”
“Will I have to keep pretending I’m a boy?”
“Possibly. It’s a safe disguise when people are looking for a little girl.”
“Will you take me to Herino? Or somewhere else?”
“I really haven’t thought that far ahead yet, your highness.”
“Well, you should,” she commanded. “I’m the rightful ruler of Caelum, you know. I deserve to be treated as such.”
What did I ever do to deserve you? But he was smart enough to realise this child was much more cooperative when she thought she was being treated in the manner to which she was clearly accustomed. “I’ll make sure everyone is aware of your exalted rank, your highness,” he promised, climbing to his feet. Because that’s what you do when you’re trying to hide something—tell everyone about it. “You ready to go?”
“Is it far?”
“This next narrow bit only lasts for an hour or two. After that the going gets easier again for a while.”
She climbed to her feet, brushing the dirt from her filthy trousers as if it made the slightest difference. “How do you know your way through here, anyway?”
“I have a map.”
“But these tunnels must be ancient. Where did you get a map?”
“My great-grandmother gave it to me.”
“Is it some sort of family heirloom?”
Declan smiled, lifting the torch from the bracket. “You could say that.”
She looked around, frowning. “Your ancestors were probably smugglers, if they used this place. Or worse.”
“Much worse, I fear,” Declan agreed. “It’s that tunnel off to the left. Come on.” He turned toward the marked entrance, and then stopped when he realised Nyah wasn’t behind him. “Is something wrong?”
“You don’t seem too bothered by the idea your ancestors were smugglers.”
Declan crossed the cavern in two steps and took her by the hand. “Nyah, my mother was a whore, my grandfather is a charlatan and my great-grandmother once blew the top off a mountain because someone pissed her off. Smugglers for ancestors? Tides, I should be so lucky.”
“What about your father?” she asked, resisting him as much as she dared.
“What about him?”
“You didn’t say what he did.”
“Don’t know what he did,” Declan said as he pulled her along behind him. “Did you miss the bit about my mother being a whore?”
Nyah shook her hand free of his and stopped, glaring at him in the gloom.
“That means you’re a bastard.”
“Both literally and figuratively,” Declan agreed. “Which also means I’m not averse to leaving you in the dark, your highness, to find a way out of here on your own if you don’t shut up and start walking.”
She stood defiantly for a moment, weighing up the advisability of calling his bluff, perhaps, and then apparently thinking better of it, she tossed her head and stalked past him toward the tunnel.
“Ricard Li will be hearing about this,” she declared with haughty disdain.
Won’t make any difference, Declan decided as he headed off after the little princess, ’cause the next time I see that flanking Caelishman, I’m going to kill him.
Chapter 39
Exhausted and still numb with grief, Stellan arrived in Whitewater City a little over ten days after he’d left Ramahn. From there he’d intended to hire another barge to take him north to Herino, but was relieved to find an escort waiting for him, sent by Mathu, to bring his cousin home.
Stellan was impressed, even touched, Mathu would think of treating him with such honour at a time like this, and willingly gave himself over to the care of his escort. The guard of honour was a mounted troop of feline Crasii, commanded by a human captain named Martan Derill, along with two other human lieutenants he never bothered to introduce. The younger son of one of Herino’s many noble families, Captain Derill was polite yet distant toward his charge, and offered little in the way of conversation on the ride north.
He did tell Stellan what he knew of the circumstances of the king and queen’s death as they rode, although it proved to be little more than the duke already knew. There had been a freak storm. The king and queen were among the score of victims. Princess Kylia was miraculously thrown clear and rescued sometime afterward. Prince Mathu had slept in, that morning, and by a mere stroke of good fortune had not been among the casualties.
As he had no wish to be King of Glaeba, Stellan was more thankful for Mathu’s survival than he could put into words. He was bereaved by the loss of Enteny, certainly, and a little concerned that Mathu might not be ready to become king in such dramatic circumstances. But he felt the boy had promise and was looking forward to the opportunity to act as mentor and advisor to the young king, once his father and mother were laid to rest and the coronation was done with.
It surprised Stellan a little to discover how much he was looking forward to the future under Mathu’s reign. The young prince’s time in Lebec had shown him to be a good-natured, if a little too easily distracted, young man, with a great deal of potential. With the right guidance, he had the makings of a great king; more tolerant than his father, with luck, and certainly more popular.
These thoughts occupied most of Stellan’s time on the journey home. It took another six rainy days of hard riding and frequent changes of horses before the island of Herino appeared on the horizon. Stellan breathed a sigh of relief when he spied it. It wasn’t quite as comforting as the sight of Lebec might have been, but it was near enough to make Stellan grateful to be home.
He would see Lebec again soon. But there was a king to bury and another to crown. Mathu needed his counsel. One of the young king’s first official decrees, Stellan hoped, would be to recall him and Arkady from the ambassadorial post in Torlenia he currently occupied, and have Stellan appointed to the court, perhaps Chancellor of the Exchequer, or even First Minister. Karyl Deryon’s position of Private Secretary to the King might also be available, soon. Lord Deryon was an old man, after all, and with the death of Enteny was likely to take this opportunity to retire.
Whatever post he was appointed to, Arkady would be delighted, Stellan knew, wondering how she was managing as a guest of the Imperator’s Consort in the royal seraglium. He was glad she’d been offered the chance to stay at the palace. It augured well for the negotiations about the Chelae Islands.
With luck, by the time Mathu officially recalled them, Arkady might have achieved what centuries of Glaeban and Torlenian diplomats had failed to do—sorted out who owned the islands and reached an equitable agreement about where the line between Glaeban waters ended and Torlenian waters began.
But that was for the future. For now, Stellan was home and anxious to meet with Mathu. When they arrived at the palace, another troop of palace guards was waiting for him. With a great deal more ceremony than Stellan thought the occasion warranted, they fell in either side of him and escorted him, not to the private chambers of the king where Stellan expected to meet with his cousin, but to the throne room, a cavernous marble-tiled hall, lacking any sort of warmth or familiarity.
The escort stopped at the entrance, indicating the duke should continue alone. Stellan stepped into the hall, glancing over his shoulder as the doors closed behind him with a fai
ntly ominous boom. Turning back, he spied Mathu seated on the throne at the other end of the hall.
“What’s this then?” Stellan asked, his boots echoing through the chilly hall as he approached the throne. He stopped at the foot of the dais and bowed to the new King of Glaeba, who was dressed quite formally, a golden coronet circling his forehead, his expression grim. “You’ve no need to impress me, Mat.”
“Welcome home, Stellan.”
He stepped a little closer and held out his hands. “There aren’t words to describe the depth of my grief, Mathu, or my sympathy for you and Kylia. How are you holding up?”
Mathu deliberately ignored the gesture. “I’m fine, thank you. How is your wife?”
Stellan lowered his hands, putting Mathu’s cool welcome down to the uncertainty of a young man, barely twenty years old, who—in the worst possible circumstances—finds himself a king. “She was well enough when I left Ramahn.”
“Her pregnancy progresses well, then?”
Stellan shook his head. He’d decided on the way here he wouldn’t lie to Mathu the way he’d lied to Enteny. A new king was a chance for a new start. While there were some things he could never confess, clearing up the mess he’d made by claiming Arkady was pregnant seemed a good place to begin. “She’s not pregnant, Mat. She never was. Your father was pressuring me about an heir, and we were facing exile…it was stupid, I know, but telling him she was expecting a baby seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“And what’s one more lie to a man like you, eh?”
A feeling of dread began to radiate out from Stellan’s gut. This meeting here in the throne room, Mathu’s cold, monosyllabic answers…“Is there something wrong, Mat?”
“You will address me as your majesty.”
“Tides, I hope you’re joking,” he replied, frowning.
“You think it’s a joke that I expect you to treat me with the respect due your king?”
“Considering how many times I’ve bailed you out of trouble, your majesty, I think it’s an insult, actually.”
“Oh, and you care about insults, do you?”
The Gods of Amyrantha Page 29