by SL Figuhr
* * *
Mica sat before Illyria's worktable, the first time he’d been out of bed since passing out weeks earlier. Just being near her and Eron anymore made his skin crawl. He felt revulsion toward them. Two small leather sacks sat before him on top of the table. Eron was talking, and had been the whole time. The sound made Mica feel physically nauseous.
“Shut up,” he finally ground out. “You make me sick. Both of you. You're lying. I know you are. I don't know how, but I know there're things you're not telling me.”
“Mica, I don't know who started the Immortal Wolves, or how they managed to infiltrate the motherhouse, or how they found and killed almost everyone,” Eron smoothly lied.
Colin sat on the couch, sipping hot cider. He remained quiet, observing and occasionally making notes in his journal.
“They still have to be alive! I can't believe you left our soul gems unprotected.” Mica turned, eyes blazing in fury, toward Illyria. “And as for you, if it hadn't been for your infernal meddling, the Guardians wouldn't have been consumed by that-that demon! Donny wouldn't have had to suffer the way he did!”
“What did you think would happen? From all accounts, your quest was already a disaster,” she countered.
Their bickering continued. Eron turned away from his friends and leaned toward Colin. He held out a piece of folded parchment, which the other man accepted.
“I moved the remaining gems to a safer cave, one that, to my knowledge, only I know of. I made a map of it for you, and included the names of those immortals whose gems still remain.”
“Thank you.” Colin smiled, showing he didn't align with his brother and his recriminations.
“The wolves destroyed everything, Colin. All your hard work over the past centuries, while you lived at the motherhouse. Whoever they were, they were thorough. All the records had been destroyed. They burnt them, blew them up, pulverized them even. Honestly, I don't think any of the wolves are alive. If they were, we would be dead. I wish I knew who finally figured out who they were, and how they managed to stop them.”
His friend nodded. “So it is your belief they meant to end us? All of us?”
“Yes, it's the only idea I can think of which makes sense. If anything, there may be one or two left who had no one to end his or her eternal life. It's possible the list holds that person's name.” More lies and half-truths flowed from his tongue.
Colin tucked the parchment away in a waistcoat pocket, and resumed sipping his beverage. “This young protégé Mica is upset about: I take it whatever disaster befell him did so because of something Her Grace was involved in?”
“More or less.”
Mica's brother slowly nodded and looked over at the arguing. It seemed to have ended. Colin placed his goblet aside, stood, and walked the few steps to stand beside the worktable. “Your Grace, as our quest is ended, so is our need for your support with it.”
She inclined her head to the immortal, and he paused before continuing.
“I have been thinking these past few months. I would like to stay and help the town.”
“Colin, no!” Mica roared.
He was ignored. “While I make a passable merchant, my true passion is learning, and the quest for knowledge. My talents would be best served as a teacher and recorder of deeds.”
“We are not staying,” Mica snarled. “Those two are perfidious liars and murderers, and will get us killed. We'll take our parchment business elsewhere. We'll find a kingdom that isn't tearing itself apart.”
“I'm sure His Majesty would be delighted to have a man of learning reside in his kingdom. How can I help you?” Illyria ignored Mica's ravings.
“I should like to start a school. It will be small at first but will grow in time. I am willing to teach anyone who wishes to learn: reading, writing, arithmetic, philosophy,” he offered.
“Excellent. I will see you have access to the king for your proposal.” She smiled and turned to his brother. “Mica, Colin is a grown man. I understand if you want to continue your journey elsewhere. I would advise you hold off for another few weeks. You are not fully healed, and hopefully, by then the snows will let up enough to make travel possible.” Her tone became thoughtful. “Although I doubt the mountain passes will be cleared until a few months beyond that time.”
“I'm not letting you get your claws into my brother,” came the heated response.
“Short of kidnapping your own brother, it doesn't seem you have a choice in what he wants. This is a fight you will not win, Mica. Take the time I am offering to finish healing, and think of what direction you want your own reborn life to go,” Illyria coolly replied. “Now, if you two will excuse me, I have estate business to discuss with Eron.”
Mica glared, fists clenched with impotent fury. He rose a little shakily, as sudden movements tended to make him dizzy still. He snatched the bags containing the ashes of his and Donny's soul gems and stomped from the room, childishly slamming the door shut behind him
Colin sighed, apologized for his brother's behavior, and exited the room after picking up his journal. Eron turned toward Illyria.
“When does our world domination start?”
“When I decide how best to go about it.”
“You mean ‘we.’ When we choose. I know you must be bored with your intrigues. All these idiots, bungling up yet another chance to begin anew.”
“Quite certain of it, are you?” she asked.
He merely smiled and took a long drink of cider, eyes intent on hers.
“Oh, very well. I admit it has been hard to not just strangle them with their own intestines. The bandits don't provide as much sport as they used to.”
“Which leads back to my main point: hostile takeover or continue weaving webs?”
She sat staring off into the fire as he sipped, waiting for her to speak. He knew what he would choose, but given his past exploits, thought it might be time to try a different tactic.
“Both. The king will make me his advisor. We will rid the kingdom of the worst offenders, and rule the rest with an iron fist.”
“As my queen commands,” he mocked, raising his goblet to her in a toast before finishing the contents.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Raina stood near the back of the audience chamber, next to a pillar. Sleep-deprived, exhausted guards stood around the room's perimeter. His Majesty sat on his throne, all the harem women kneeling in rows around it. Aranthus stood at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the platform, every noble and merchant of importance packed into the space before. Behind and to the sides stood members who helped record and see to the running of the kingdom. The rest of the space was filled with peasants and the poor, hoping to get a chance to beg of even a few crumbs from the king's table.
Maceanas was shouting, gesticulating wildly as spittle flew. “How dare you keep secrets from me! I am your king! I should have been informed of such duplicity the moment it became known! I shall have you all stripped of your titles, whipped and fined! You have put my life in danger!”
He raved on; the young woman couldn't really see anyone's faces very well from her position, only a few profiles. The heat from so many bodies made the room unbearably hot, and many sweated freely from it and a combination of nerves and other emotions. Raina glanced toward a guard; his face turned an ashy gray. As she watched, his eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed, metal armor ringing against stone.
“What happened?”
“Is he dead?”
“Maybe he was poisoned!”
The mutters rose and slowly rippled toward the front of the room as fellow guards darted looks between them, wanting to go to their fallen comrade, but not quite willing to risk the king's wrath.
“Silence! Silence I say!” the king screamed from his throne. “What is wrong with him?”
The royal physician was trying to make his way through the crowd; people parted to let him through and then eagerly crowded in behind him as he knelt next to the fallen man. Raina watched a
s he lifted an eyelid up, held a small brass disk under the nose for breath. After a few moments, he stood and called out into the eager hush of listeners.
“Sire, the man is merely exhausted near unto death, nothing more. I prescribe rest for him, hearty meals, and in a day or two he will be fit for duty.”
“What? What? A day or two? I need him now! I cannot be unguarded! I don't care how you get him better, but I want him back guarding by morning! No excuses or it's your head!” the king bellowed.
The physician could only bow and murmur acceptance as his apprentices began to drag the man from the hall, his armor producing shrill noises from the contact with the stone floor. The crowd turned back to the king.
Aranthus banged his staff upon the floor to quiet those who still whispered amongst themselves.
“I am offering a reward of a thousand gold pieces to any person with knowledge of the group operating in my kingdom under the head questioner’s leadership which leads to an arrest and execution.”
A gasp rose, voices rising briefly, then falling off as the chamberlain banged his staff against the floor. The king continued, “Another thousand gold coins will go to the person who can bring the traitor known as Earl Nicholas, former royal advisor, to me alive, for questioning. Aranthus and Mathias will record whatever is said in the utmost confidence. However, should any think to make false claims and profit from them, he will be flogged, then hanged.”
More gasps and shouts rose from the crowd, and it took longer for the noise to die down.
“Today, I confer royal power and authority on my new advisor: the Duchess Illyria Maison du Corbeau. She is to be obeyed as I am obeyed. To refuse her is to refuse me. Any who ignore her requests will be considered traitors to the crown and kingdom. Now go!”
A moment of tense silence filled the hall as His Majesty's words filtered throughout the collective consciousness. A few of the nobles and merchants forget themselves, yelling in outrage and derision.
“Guards! Arrest those dissenters who continue to speak against my proclamations!” the king screamed.
Almost all the voices dropped off except for a few who were extracted from the crowd with a small amount of hassle.
“Does anyone else care to voice their opinions? Take them to the dungeons to rot.”
The protestors were clubbed into silence and dragged off. The king stood and everyone made their obeisance as he left the throne room. Once he was gone, the crowd broke into smaller knots of people. Slowly some of the groups shuffled toward the door and out, voices rising in displeasure or outrage over the new appointment once they were outside. Sycophants eager to curry favor moved toward the duchess. The young woman kept to her spot, watching who passed, eavesdropping.
Priester Joseph spat upon the floor. “The Death Lands will take you all for your sins.” He stomped from the hall.
She noted a few of the nobles hung back, including Baroness Rothsbury. They all gathered around a man with black hair and silver wings at the temples who stood next to the infamous duchess. Her Grace had a small smile of satisfaction on her face.
Raina shifted her weight from foot to foot, as the nobles filtered out. She almost missed a dark-haired man skulking behind a pillar, shadowing the earl and the duchess. The man and woman came toward her, and she stepped into their path, dropping a graceful curtsey. “Your Lordship, Your Grace. A moment of your valuable time, please.”
He frowned. “I am not accepting women, especially young ones, into the sheriff's service.”
“I am not applying. I have information . . .”
“Then you should be telling it to the chamberlain, or Mathias.”
The duchess was looking at her in a disconcerting way as if trying to peer through her eyes and into her mind itself. “Chadrick.” She lightly touched his arm, eyes never leaving the face of the woman before her. “What is it you wish to speak of?”
Raina lowered her voice, not wanting to be overheard by the other nobles. “Baroness Rothsbury gave me some old accounts to go over, several months back, to see if I really knew what I was doing. I've . . . found some discrepancies. It's been weeks since I brought them to her attention. Since then, I have not been allowed near the books again. I would not bring it up, but I have felt as if I am being watched.”
“What do they have you doing now?” the duchess asked.
“Copying last year’s census and matching it to those who are known to have survived so far under the royal census taker.”
“Do you remember which accounts had the problems?” the earl asked.
“Yes. For the most part, they were kitchen records, except for one set dealing with the Lord Advisor's expenses. The former advisor,” she hurried to add. “There were . . . items on it of a questionable nature and amount.”
The two nobles exchanged glances before the woman spoke. “Thank you for alerting us. We will make inquiries.” The young woman was dismissed.
She curtsied again as they made to move on, but the elegant woman paused and half-turned back. “Raina, should you hear rumors of unrest and starvation, come and tell me.” Then they walked out.
Raina was shocked at the use of her name, never having told it to them. It confirmed some of the whispers swirling around town about the foreigner.
* * *
Sydney escorted Illyria out of the palace, walking with her down the hill. “My love, with this appointment, surely you can ask the king to grant my request.”
She turned her head toward him, calmly replying, “I will try my best, but I don't want to be seen as abusing my post the way Lord Nicky did.”
A sinking feeling took hold of him; all the doubts and nasty words Elizabeth had flung at him rose to the forefront of his mind. Had the duchess used him? Did she love him? He was afraid to ask, not sure he could stand knowing the truth.
It was as if she knew his thoughts, for she tucked her arm around his, snuggling close. “Do not despair, my love. It would be best if you petitioned him again, yourself, without trying to involve me. Perhaps your lady wife would be amenable this time to supporting it?”
Sydney shook his head. “No. She will do everything in her power to block it. She wants me to suffer, to deny me any chance at happiness. She thirsts for vengeance.” There was nothing more to say on the subject. I can do nothing to alleviate her hatred of me. She continues to nurse it as she has for years, shortly after we were wed. He was pulled from his thoughts by the duchess's voice.
“His Majesty is correct in thinking there are more traitors lurking.”
His disappointment with her answer to his request made his reply harsh. “All this talk of traitors! When will it end? When we are all dead? Or just mindless slaves with no will or thoughts to call our own?”
She fully faced him, touching his arm and stopping their forward momentum. “I understand how this can be a terrible reminder of what happened to your own family, your brothers. Please, forgive my poor choice of words. I should have said, we must make sure there are no others taking advantage of their positions the way Nicky did.”
Sydney scowled at nothing in particular over her shoulder, not sure he could meet her eyes.
“I am counting on you to help me. I need your incorruptibility, your honor, your love of the kingdom.” She tried to catch his eye as he bowed his head, studying the icy, snow-covered cobbles.
“Is that all you need me for?”
“Of course not. Will you come back with me? Surely there is something at my home I can tempt you with,” she replied.
He felt the cold air pierce his lungs, almost painful, as he gave himself time to think and decide. “Yes, I should like that very much.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Dascis sat at his desk, his feet propped on a hot stone in an effort to keep them warm. He could feel the heat lessening. The wood inside the fireplace was getting to the point where he would have to stand and add more. Two oil lamps burned at the top corners of his desk. He had long since sent his clerks and apprentices home.
The rotund man dipped his quill in the ink, and continued recording recent events on parchment for inclusion into the official records. He was jarred out of his work by the sound of heavy pounding on the outer door to the Royal Records offices.
“Damn it all!” he roared as a fat drop of ink marred the pristine sheet. Quickly he worked to mop it up, to lessen the damage, but it was too late. He would have to scrap the page and start over. Nothing must mar the official records.
The pounding came again, relentless enough that he thought the door would soon be smashed inward. No one but slaves and various minor officials visited him in his offices, and they only to fetch him for the king or for other royal business.
It was too late to be needed, unless . . . That woman!
Dascis heaved himself away from his desk, snatched up a lamp, and hurried toward the receiving room. When he got to the door, it was shuddering. Quickly he opened the peephole to yell, “Give me a moment, damn you!”
He slammed it shut without waiting for a reply, and worked the locks before drawing the door open. A strong gust of wind blew in, ripping the door from his hands, nearly braining him as it slammed against the wall.
He held the oil lamp up, squinting against the snow blowing in. “Who is it?”
“The royal advisor, Duchess Illyria, seeks an audience.” The slave gestured behind him at a black coach with silver trimmings.
The records keeper scowled, annoyed with how every new advisor had to bother him. While he wished to be left alone, he thought it best to get the interview over with. “Well then come in and be quick about it!” He tried to shield the oil flame from the wind, which was bringing snow in that fast piled upon the floor.
A footman opened the coach door, and Her Grace stepped down and strode forward. Her long, dragging bustle skirt made a path in the snow. Behind her, the coach moved off, the driver maneuvering it under the building's steep overhanging roof in an effort to keep snow from piling on top. The footman jumped off the rumble seat and hurried to toss blankets over the horses to keep them warm during the wait. The duchess stepped far enough inside so her retinue, comprising of the slave who had banged on the door, and a heavily cloaked and hooded person, could also enter. Despite the short walk from carriage to the door, her black cloak was covered in a thin layer of snow.