by B Lynch
“Does it get easier?” Sophine said out loud, not expecting an answer. Hoping for one from Yom, perhaps.
“Over time,” Eife replied. “It’s been some time since my brother died, and… it still hurts to think of, but he’s in a better place, now. There’s no balm for the heart but time.”
“Wine would help,” Sophine mused. “It would help a lot.” Her mind had narrowed in focus, and her body craved the immediate relief drink could bring.
Eife hesitated. “I don’t think it’s wise, your Grace.”
“Please,” Sophine said, interrupting her maid, “Fetch me wine. I’ll ask no more of you this night.”
“The pain’ll still be there in the morning, and worse still,” her maid cautioned.
“Fetch it.” Her words had a tired harshness to them, but Eife obeyed, and left to find some wine. Sophine took the shirts with her to her bed, and inhaled deep breaths of her husband’s lingering scent, mixed with the faint odor of sweet-cakes. She remembered their younger days – even after the children – when she could still smell his musk; the way the sweat brought it out, and how it made her crave his touch. Some of it seemed woven into his shirts, as much a part of them as their myriad threads. She hoped that was the case. Eife returned a short while later, with the round bottle in hand, the bottom covered in a fitted straw basket. Sophine hadn’t been distracted by her soft entrance; it was only when Eife approached her with the wine that she was aware of her servant’s return.
“It’s a Vizzini red, from Poletto,” Eife said, uncorking it. “From your last trip. A gift from the Emperor.”
“Open it and leave it,” Sophine said.
“It’s a large bottle,” Eife replied, “Let me pour you a glass, and-”
“Open it and leave the bottle with me,” Sophine said, sharply. “That will be all, Eife.”
Eife seemed surprised, but nodded in acknowledgement. “Understood, Your Grace,” she said, as she uncorked it. Eife left the bottle on Sophine’s nightstand, and closed the door behind her.
As Sophine put the bottle to her lips, and allowed the savory bitterness to wind its way down her throat, she found herself dwelling on her husband’s last, cryptic words. A shining crown, the red banner, the little bear…
“What the hell does it mean?” she asked herself, before taking long gulps, and willing the numbness. She remembered the urgency in his voice; it was important to him. Enough to spend his dying words on – a last gift of wisdom. And as she swallowed the wine, and felt that gentle burn, she felt it kindle something deep inside – a want to find out what it meant. It was a welcome change from the misery and agony that had begun to cover her life like creeping moss, or thick snow in winter. She thought of the one man who would know what Rionn’s words meant, and the one place she did not want to see again.
Sophine left the half-empty bottle on the nightstand.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Royth awoke to rattling on his cell doors, in the middle of the night. Sophine stood there in her nightgown, a drunken, swaying phantom. She looked almost terrifying by torchlight; the guard sat at the bottom of the stairs, spear close at hand.
“Good evening, my Queen,” he groused. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I have questions for you,” she said. “About visions.” As she spoke, she slightly slurred her words; not enough to be falling-down drunk, but enough that she was impaired.
“You’ve been drinking,” Royth said, noting the obvious. Sophine doubled over with immoderate laughter. Immediately, it put Royth on edge.
“How clever,” she said, “The great Royal Seer knows…that I’ve been drinking. But can he guess the reasons?” As she spoke, she squinted, trying to narrow her eyes and intimidate, but overdoing it by half, with a mocking smile.”
“You’ve lost your son. The king is dying...”
“The king is dead,” she said, cutting him off. A sizable silence followed as the words weighed on Royth’s heart. Finally, the King had passed. A sadness came with that news; though Royth was sure the King had come to hate him in his final days, Royth felt no bitterness towards him. Only a sense of loss.
“I’m sorry,” Royth replied, apologetic. “Rionn was a good man.”
“He was indeed.” To Royth’s ears, she seemed scornful, and distant - to his eyes, he saw a woman whose eyes held nothing but utter contempt for him. There was no masking it anymore; it was naked before him. He chose instead not to speak. With Rionn dead, and a belly full of wine, nothing he said would change her mind; he only stood a better risk of touching a raw nerve. “He said many things as he was dying,” Sophine said. “I want you to tell me what they meant.”
“Very well,” Royth said.
She scoffed. “What? No bargaining?” she asked. “Have we broken you so badly, Seer?”
“No,” Royth said. “I do this for the harm I’ve caused you, that nothing will ever mend.” He watched her face twist with anger. “What were the symbols?” he asked.
Stubbornly, she began to talk. “A shining crown in the sky, above the land… a red banner -”
“- And a little bear, saving a man in the forest.” He said, finishing her sentence. She was shocked. As was he.
“How…?” she asked. “You can’t have heard him. You were -”
“I had the same vision of a golden crown, high above our castle; a young bear guiding a man through the forest; and a red banner bearing Barra’s crest.” His words were sure; but he worried about the reaction they might create.
She moved closer to the bars. “What does it mean? Our banner is not red.”
“It means,” he said. ”That we know who will make Peacebringer whole, and become the next king.”
“Who?” she asked. “Marrol?”
“The answer will make things very, very difficult for you, in the coming days.” he said, wary of the words he needed to speak. “And for that, I am sorry.”
“Out with it,” she said, “Who is our next King?”
He waiting a beat before speaking the name, with dread seriousness. “It’s Caliandra.”
Sophine was shocked and offended. “You bastard,” she said. “Don’t joke with me.”
“It’s no joke,” Royth replied. “The bear spoke to me with her voice. She will be the next King. Your husband entered a trance. You heard his vision. What reason do I have to lie?”
“Because that means my husband and my son have died, so my daughter can rule a kingdom.” Sophine was incredulous. “No,” she said. “You’re lying. You must be lying.”
“I am not,” Royth said, simply. Sophine clenched her jaw, and began to pace outside the cell.
“You killed him to make this happen, didn’t you?” she said, accusing him with a jabbing finger. “You knew this would happen.”
“He would have ruined us,” Royth said. “You and your daughters were in danger, and the kingdom would have suffered. I had to act, but I regret that I needed to.”
“No,” Sophine said. “He didn’t ruin us. You ruined us. You ruined everything!”
“I saved everything!” Royth shouted back. “Only a mother’s love could be so blind to what he would become. I do not know why Peacebringer would have chosen him, but I could not risk that.”
“So you killed him yourself,” Sophine said, her voice dripping with anger. “And now you tell me my daughter has to take the throne. My Caliandra? Why her?” The anger was slipping; the sadness came behind it. Royth picked his words carefully; he regretted lashing out.
“I did not choose her,” Royth said. “I am telling you what is to be. Caliandra will restore this kingdom to its glory, just as your son would have destroyed it. You must prepare her for it.” He stopped, and added, “If she needs my guidance, I would be glad to give it.”
Sophine slammed her palm against the cell bars. “There it is!” she shouted. “You want me to free you, after what you’ve done?”
“I did not ask to walk free,” Royth said, “Only to live. And with so few tr
ue Seers in the world, I would be of more use to you alive.” He could tell by the look of recognition in her eyes that what he said had found purchase; she was entertaining the suggestion. “Let me live out my days here,” he said. He said nothing of how he could have escaped, and made no other boasts. That time had passed, and he had stayed out of guilt. This was his penance.
“I will consider it,” she huffed. Royth gently smiled.
“Thank you,” he replied. “Duchess.”
She stood up, and before she walked out, she addressed him again. “They will not easily let her be King, you know. This is a hard life you’ve set her on.”
“It was always her destiny,” Royth replied. “I only hastened it.” And yet, he had not begun to consider the consequences of his actions; he did not think of what wearing the crown might do to Caliandra.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Marrol left the castle with an empty heart; he refused to take the carriage, and instead chose Sable – an old, exceedingly loyal horse. The night’s air was good for them, and masked the tears that welled in his eyes; Marrol hoped that he could ride faster still. He only heard the hoofbeats as he traveled, his bodyguards well behind him, and the sound of mourning bells ringing in the night. The-King Is Dead, The-King Is Dead, they seemed to clang. The moon hung gloomily overhead, and the downhill path gave way to a curving dirt road, leading to Alton proper.
He and his bodyguards slowed their pace as they entered the village, out of concern for those not yet awake. They found a fair number of distressed peasants, milling about – many were saddened, but some were even crying. In an instant, Marrol no longer felt so alone in his sorrow. These people, who barely knew Rionn – who only admired their King from a distance – wept for his loss. Worse still, he saw a sense of lost hopelessness in their eyes. Without Rionn, who would lead them?
Some prayed, however. He saw several kneeling on the ground in a circle, praying to Yom for Rionn’s safe travels to the afterlife. “For the Soldier-King,” they said. Marrol wagered if anything, a small offering of flowers would rest at the small house Rionn grew up in, in the poor section of Alton that reeked of piss and rot. He was not the first poor boy to pick up a soldier’s spear, nor would he be the last – but he would be the best remembered.
Marrol pulled on Sable’s reins, and directed her towards the outskirts where his house stood proud. Patta would no doubt still be sleeping – it would take a war to wake her, some nights. The ride was quiet, and felt long – longer than it normally was. Marrol used the time to reflect, much as he didn’t want to. He only wanted to ride faster, to be home, but there was a peace in the deep, dark hours not offered anywhere else. Marrol thought about his last conversation with Rionn, and his request. Trust in Peacebringer, he said.
But how could he? Why should he trust in the magic axe, when other kingdoms did far better without it? The Silenians dominated the southern coast, and their reach extended far inland; the Kersikki held the icy North, and several large provinces beneath it. Ariaci controlled great swaths of the southwest, and the western coast, bordering Barra. The Odrygi controlled regional trade with a strong fist, and the Amaniren on the next continent remained unconquered and uncooperative. The Xie Tsen flourished, and there was talk of other kingdoms farther east, and farther south… and none of them trusted in an axe. None of them needed to.
It seemed foolish. What if the axe disappeared, or was stolen? What would Barra do then? They relied on a King, and behind that, the Council… but those eight could rarely come together on anything. Marrol knew it well enough; so much of their work was built on compromises he hated. The King could overrule the council, and yet they would risk all their stability on someone untested, unproven, and unknown? This is how Padraeg must have felt, Marrol thought, as he remembered his grey-bearded predecessor; the man told him stories of the frustrations of helping a wet-behind-the-ears soldier, a peasant, learn to rule a kingdom. He was the lowest-born choice that Peacebringer had made in two hundred years, and some days it seemed a stroke of luck that Rionn became so capable.
But the next king wouldn’t have the luxury of time, or an education. Marrol knew that for certain. Any threats would be at their door far, far sooner. For that reason, he knew his king would need him – and yet, the inkling of a thought emerged in his mind. What if I could act before then, without him?
Marrol arrived as quietly as he was able; the bodyguards remained mounted, and waited outside the stable. The house was dark, there were no candles lit that he could see. “You are dismissed,” Marrol said to them, as he led Sable in to the stable. They offered him a nod, and set their horses to a quiet trot as they departed. He was in the midst of unsaddling Sable when he heard someone else behind him; soft footsteps on hay and mud. He reached for his sword, and turned around; it was Patta, in a nightgown, with only a shawl around her shoulders for warmth. Her brown eyes were full of concern, and the moonlight made her slender cheeks all the more lovely. He was relieved, and let his hand fall by his side.
“He’s dead, isn’t he?” she asked. Marrol hung his head, and shook it. Nothing else needed to be said. She walked up to him, and laid her head on his chest; her arms wrapped around him, and held him tight.
“I’m sorry,” Patta said. “You must miss him terribly.”
“It was his time,” Marrol said, shaking his head. “Yom knows I didn’t want it to be… but it was.” The tears came back, fresh and unbidden. He pulled Patta in close, and though it might have seemed from a distance that he was holding her, he knew it was the opposite; she was the only thing holding him up.
It had happened. Rionn was gone, and in the morning, he faced a world without his friend. Only two thoughts brought him solace; that his friend was at last at peace, and that in the morning, the traitor Royth would die.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
It had taken very little to bring Marroll to the castle that morning; the page’s simple mention of what Sophine wished to do sent him off like a cannonball shot. He did not waste time with breakfast; he rode hard, and walked as quickly as his feet allowed. He stormed into the former King’s study, fuming with anger; Fenwyn and Sophine were startled by his words, which poured from his mouth like rolling thunder.
“You cannot let him live!” he yelled, nostrils flaring. He jabbed an accusing finger at Sophine, and added, “Have you gone mad?”
Sophine’s response was cool and measured, handling Marrol as one might a temperamental child. “Please, be seated, Marrol,” she said, distant, never allowing her voice to waver, “We wished to discuss it with you before it was put to action.”
“There is nothing to discuss,” Marrol growled, standing firm. “Royth has earned his death.” He saw a flash of anger cross her face, and for a moment, he saw the blizzard beneath.
“I have not forgotten what role he played in Valric’s death, nor will I ever forget it,” Sophine said, her even voice tinged with bitterness, “But we cannot kill him. Not when our kingdom’s future hangs in the balance.”
“It would be a distinct strategic disadvantage,” offered Fenwyn, who nervously clasped at his fingers. He seemed downtrodden; there was none of the smug intelligence that Marrol had known him for. By contrast, the former Queen was still as a statue, and held Marrol’s gaze without interruption. Marrol turned to Fenwyn, who was the easier target of the two.
“Don’t speak to me of strategy, you Yom-damned worm,” Marrol seethed. “Royth is a traitor and a murderer. You and he may have been friends, but she,” Marrol said, pointing at Sophine, “She should know the price that comes with hopping in bed with black devils.”
Marrol watched great hurt cross Fenwyn’s face; the Minister of the Interior stood up to protest, but Sophine stopped him with a careful palm. “Royth is a killer and a scoundrel, but he is not a traitor.” She said. “He wishes to do penance for his crimes.”
Penance. Him? Marrol paced angrily around the room, shifting his eyes between her and Fenwyn, but finally focusing on Sophine - the
bulwark. The unexpected nemesis. How could she, of all people, think to keep Royth alive? “Duchess,” he said, in disbelief, “He’s an agent of the Nest. Regret is a foreign language to him.”
“Then he will learn it,” Sophine said, forcefully; her tone did not take Marrol by surprise, but it gave him pause. “He will remain imprisoned for the rest of his years,” she said. “A swift death would be too kind. He will suffer.”
“It is not about kindness,” he said, glaring at her. “It is about honor. Our people will want blood for Valric’s death, as do you - do not shield yourself with misguided compassion. If you put it to the Council, they will vote for his death.”
“Four of them stand with us, not including Minister Fenwyn,” Kells said, entering the room behind Marrol, and walking around him to the table. He seated himself, and looked over at Marrol. “Torturing him has given us nothing. He has no allies outside these walls, or in. Sorry to disappoint you,” Kells said.
“The reluctant torturer,” Marrol said, and shook his head with a bitter smirk. “Of course you’d trust him,” Marrol said, all but spitting at Sophine and Fenwyn. “If you’ve all gone mad, why not put your faith in the man who let the Prince die?”
“Minister Marrol,” Sophine said, firm, “We ask for your support. If we don’t have it, then please, leave.”
“Then I will leave,” Marrol said, angrier than before. “But I will fight you on this. You cannot let Royth live without giving up our country’s honor in the process.” Marrol gestured to the room, “But what would you traitors know of honor?”
“More than you,” Sophine said, her voice bitter as a chill wind. “I have dashed it upon the rocks, so our kingdom will survive - so our next king has a Seer, and does not face our future blind. I want justice more than you ever claim you will, believe me… and I hope that someday, fatherhood helps you understand the pains in my heart when I ask that Royth lives.”