by Jeff Wheeler
A man wearing a chain hauberk beneath his tunic strode forward. He was young, with long dark hair and a white-and-black cape. He was barely half of Carew’s age, but he looked both fit and strong.
“My name is Hove,” the young man said with a sneer. “Sworn man of the true Earl of Forshee and the true Aldermaston of Muirwood, who even now ride from the north with an army to topple this pretend queen.” He walked up to where Carew had thrown down his glove and picked it up. “This woman is no queen. She is but a vessel of evil sent to deceive us. May the Medium prove my words to be true.”
And then he drew his sword.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Walraven’s Dagger
Corriveaux heard the steps coming down the darkened hallway, but the Leerings had already warned him of the visitor’s approach. He waited in the darkness, past the curtain of light that spilled down on the stone plinth in the center of the room. He was nervous. Even though Walraven was an old man, he was cunning and would not be taken off guard easily. Corriveaux knew he could best him in a battle of strength, but this would be a battle of minds.
At last, he could see Walraven in the shadowy corridor. The older man’s mass of gray hair was wild and unkempt, his figure more gaunt than before. There was a haggard, weary look on his face. The walk down the steps into the dungeon had fatigued him, which showed in his labored breathing.
Walraven paused in the threshold of the room, his eyes scanning the darkness.
“You sent for me, Corriveaux?” Walraven asked mildly, still not entering.
“Come in, old friend,” Corriveaux greeted. He kept perfectly still.
Walraven’s expression tightened somewhat as he shuffled into the chamber. “My joints have been aching lately. Is there a Leering for arthritic joints, I wonder? It would be a helpful invention.”
Corriveaux was not fooled. That declaration of weakness had been a purposeful attempt to seem more vulnerable. He was sharp, the old man. The truth was, Corriveaux respected him immensely. Walraven scratched a patch of gray hair at the back of his head and scrunched up his face, his eyes still probing the dark.
“What is the report from Comoros?” he asked the old man. “What have you heard from your man Fox?”
He asked the words deliberately, studying Walraven’s face for a reaction.
The older man rubbed his throat. “Mayhem, as you can expect. Deorwynn was executed and the old king poisoned. The kishion is being hunted, but unless we send another to find him, he will likely remain beyond our power. The girl is taking the throne.”
Corriveaux smiled darkly, bridling his fury. Walraven did not use Maia’s name, he noticed. Their humiliation at losing her and the High Seer together was still a festering sore. They had been outmaneuvered by an old woman from Pry-Ree, one who continued to meddle with their strategies.
“The installation of a new queen is perfect for our plans,” Corriveaux said. “The people will be unruly for a while. She will seek to change things, which will only add to the confusion.”
“Have you had word from the armada?” Walraven asked with unconcern. “When will they arrive?”
“Why do you wish to know?” Corriveaux asked pointedly.
“It is no matter,” Walraven said with a shrug. “Only curiosity. This may interest you, though. There appears to be a schism among the mastons in Comoros. The incumbent Aldermaston of Augustin . . . the one known as Kranmir. You know of him?”
“I do not. Dahomey is my specialty. Augustin is one of their wealthier abbeys, if I recall.”
“Indeed. The former king had positioned Kranmir to assume command of Muirwood. Kranmir and some of the king’s loyalists are starting a civil war. They mean to challenge the girl for the throne.”
Corriveaux snorted. “So if we do nothing, they may kill each other for us? How foolish of them. That kingdom has always been fractious. But it does not change our plans. Let them howl and stab each other. When the armada arrives off its shores, they will learn the true meaning of the Void.”
“Yes, I am sure they will. I told you about Kranmir because I believe we would be better served to strike the south first. You do not know the earldoms as I do. The north is controlled by a disgruntled man named Kord Schuyler, who ran the earldom of Forshee and murdered his predecessors.”
“I recall that,” Corriveaux said.
“He is acting with Kranmir, and they have summoned an army to march on the capital. It will leave the south undefended. Just a suggestion, my friend, for the next time you contact the armada commander by the waymarker.”
Corriveaux narrowed his gaze at Walraven. He slowly walked around in the darkness, his footfalls muffled by Leerings that had been installed for that purpose.
“Put your dagger on the plinth,” Corriveaux said softly, his own drawn and gripped tightly in his hand.
Walraven’s neck muscle twitched. “If you feel it is necessary,” he said with nonchalance. He walked into the room, bathed with light from the Leering in the ceiling. He reached into his robe and withdrew his dagger, the symbol of his membership in the Victus. Any Victus who refused the call to put his dagger on the plinth would be hunted down by a kishion and killed. Setting down the dagger also made a man vulnerable, which was just what Corriveaux wanted.
Walraven stood there for a moment, his dagger clutched in his hand. Then he gently reached out and set it on the plinth.
“You killed Gastone,” Walraven said simply, stepping away from the plinth.
“I did,” Corriveaux answered.
“You thought he betrayed us?” There was a curious tone in his voice, but still . . . he sounded almost indifferent.
“No. I thought you betrayed us, my friend.”
Walraven’s brow crinkled and then smoothed. “Ah. I see.”
“I knew you would,” Corriveaux said, moving closer to the older man, watching him for any sign that he would flee or snatch back the dagger. He was preparing himself to plunge his own weapon into Walraven’s back. He knew just where to stab him. “I watched your movements after Gastone’s death. You knew I would do this, Walraven. You knew I had to kill you. I thought you would flee on a ship.”
Walraven bowed his head, as if anticipating the blow that would come.
“I know,” the old man said softly. “First the Hand. Then Gastone. I knew it was you, Corriveaux. Yet I still came here, into the bowels of the fortress.” He turned his head slightly, angling it toward where Corriveaux lurked in the shadows.
“You did not run.”
Walraven coughed and chuckled. “I am an old man, Corriveaux Tenir. Running is no longer an ability I possess. I do not wish to rule the Victus as you do. You impressed me from the start with your ambition and—”
“Do not flatter me!” Corriveaux seethed. “One of the Victus betrayed us. It is no accident that the High Seer and the girl escaped. They must have received help from within. It was you or it was me. No one else was around.”
“Have you not considered that it may have been the Medium?” Walraven asked with a hint of challenge in his voice.
Corriveaux frowned, his feelings churning uneasily inside him. “I do not believe that.”
“Of course not, or I would not be standing here in front of you about to be murdered.”
Corriveaux lunged at him. He wrapped his arm around the old man’s neck, jerking him off balance. Though he grunted with pain and toppled backward, Walraven kept his hands open and spread, not resisting the crushing force around his neck. Corriveaux jabbed the dagger blade against the old man’s spine, but still he did not resist. Instead, he hissed through his teeth and sunk to his wobbling knees, his posture still submissive.
“Do you not want to live, Walraven?” Corriveaux whispered in his ear.
A pent-up breath was released, followed by a twisting sigh of pain and discomfort. “I am old, my friend. If it would make you feel better to kill me, go ahead. You can summon my spirit into the dark pools if you have any questions. I told you already, I do not
seek your place and never have.”
Corriveaux hesitated. It would be so easy to finish it now. A dagger thrust would kill Walraven and end his worries. This had long been the way of the Victus. But what if Walraven were not a traitor? He would be executing a man whose wisdom and connections would benefit him later, especially in a battle with Comoros.
“I should kill you,” Corriveaux whispered.
“If I have ceased being useful to you.”
Slowly, Corriveaux released the grip around Walraven’s neck. He let the old man slump to the ground, breathing in heavy gasps to return the air to his lungs.
“Give me your signet ring,” Corriveaux said.
Still wheezing and breathing hard, Walraven eased himself up on his knees. He twisted the ring off his finger and reached out to hand it over.
“I suppose we will see if you are right,” Corriveaux continued. “If the Medium is what rescued the High Seer and her blighted granddaughter, you will be vindicated if it saves them again. For now, I will hold you prisoner until this is over and Comoros is left desolate. I will send word in your name,” he continued, holding up the ring. “And we will see how your servants respond. Let us see . . . I believe I shall summon the High Seer to meet you in Hautland. If she comes, then I will know you are in league with her. I will command Fox to do mischief as well. We will see whether or not he obeys.” He smiled darkly. “I have already dispatched a second kishion to Comoros.”
Walraven’s bleary eyes widened slightly. “You did?”
“Yes, of course. The renegade must be destroyed. But I also sent a kystrel with him. The girl’s kystrel. He will give it to someone who can carry on the work we started. Someone we have already prepared. When the armada arrives, Comoros will be so fraught with discord they will be unable to defend themselves against us. They will distrust each other so much even the Medium will forsake them. The Void will destroy Comoros, Walraven. And we will usher it into being by destroying the High Seer herself.”
Walraven’s countenance slowly calmed and took on a more placid look. “Thank you for sparing me, Corriveaux. Let me assist you, to prove my loyalty to the Victus. I will write the letters as you instruct. They will come from my hand and bear my symbol. You only need to tell me what you wish me to say.”
“You would cooperate?” Corriveaux said with surprise, looking askance at the man crumpled on the floor. “After the way I have treated you?” He knew that when a man was threatened with death, it scarred him for life. The trust between them was shattered.
“I must prove myself to you,” Walraven said.
Corriveaux shook his head. “No, my friend. From this day forward, we must ever be enemies. You will not relish being in the dungeons. But it is better than being a corpse.”
Pulling his boot back, Corriveaux kicked Walraven in the ribs, hard enough to snap the bones. The older man gasped with pain and crumpled over, writhing on the ground. Turning the dagger over in his hand, Corriveaux slammed the hilt down on Walraven’s skull. The action filled him with a sense of power. He could feel the Myriad Ones filling the chamber, snuffling around the body prostrate on the ground. A madness seized him then, an irrepressible madness to hurt and destroy.
When the guards later dragged Walraven’s body to the dungeon cell, they wondered how the crushed old man was even breathing.
I must often remind myself that my enemy is a young woman not even twenty years old. All people are corruptible if the right device can be employed. We have tempted her with riches, and she rejected them. We have tempted her with love, and she demurred. But I recall now the wise words of one maston. Youth is easily deceived because it is quick to hope. We will tempt her with hope, and then we will crush it.
—Corriveaux Tenir, Victus of Dahomey
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Champion of Comoros
The words of the challenger stilled all conversation within the hall. Maia stared at the young man, who was probably just a slight bit older than she was. He had a solemn bearing, his eyes near glowed with anger, and he had drawn a maston sword, which he held purposefully before him. She saw the glint of the hauberk beneath his white-and-black tunic and cape, and his hair was dark, like Collier’s, only longer.
Carew kicked off the stirrups and landed with a clatter of the spurs on the paving stones. His own sword rung clear of his sheath. He was larger and more intimidating than the young man, although he had recently been wounded.
Maia stood at her table suddenly, feeling the thick tension fill the hall like haze.
“What abbey do you hail from?” she called out to the young man, who had declared his name Hove.
The look he gave her was dark and distrusting, and his gaze almost immediately returned to Captain Carew. “I passed the maston test at Augustin. You will not deceive me with your words as you have these others. Speak no more, woman. I will not hear you.”
“She is your queen,” Carew said angrily, closing the gap between them.
“I will have no bloodshed in my hall,” Maia said with firmness in her voice, though she felt her knees trembling at the prospect of the coming conflict. “Captain . . . disarm him.”
“It will not be difficult,” Carew said with a chuckle.
“So said the giant before he fell,” Hove retorted. He fell into a battle stance, guard held high, eyes focused on Carew.
The more seasoned soldier grunted with mockery and rushed at him with a flurry of blows. Maia remained on her feet, unable to feel the Medium at all amidst the drunkenness and frivolity of the coronation celebration. She had not expected Kranmir to challenge her right to rule so openly, at least not yet. As she heard and saw the two swords clash, she tried to understand the rogue Aldermaston’s motives. Why would he send a stripling, one who had passed the maston test at his own abbey? Certainly, the young man would be totally loyal and obedient, sharing the same regard for him as she herself felt for Richard Syon, but did that explain it?
She glanced over at her chancellor, who had a wrinkled frown on his face as he stared at the spectacle playing out in front of them.
Carew locked hilts with Hove and used his size to drive the young man back, but suddenly the young man dipped and hammered his gauntleted fist into the captain’s leg. Carew’s face twisted with pain, and Maia realized the blow had been delivered to his injured leg, the one that had been wounded in the battle of Muirwood. Carew crumpled and sagged onto one knee, but he countered with a punch to Hove’s ribs. The two men wrestled a bit before separating, both wincing and breathing hard.
“A cruel trick,” Carew sneered.
Hove saluted him with his sword and delivered a mocking smile before coming at the captain again, more vigorously this time. Carew struggled back to his feet, but he was limping now, and Maia felt a trembling of dread that her drunken champion was about to fail.
There were sparks as the blades met, and although he was younger and less experienced, the boy’s passion helped close the gap created by Carew’s skills and size.
“I do not like this,” Maia seethed, watching helplessly as the two men fought. A dark feeling wriggled inside her heart. She felt certain that she needed to stop the conflict. If she did not succeed, something dreadful would happen.
Carew pivoted and folded in, trapping Hove’s sword arm against his body. He snapped his head forward against Hove’s forehead, aiming for the boy’s nose but glancing his cheekbone instead. The young man’s head whipped back in a daze, and Carew twisted him around and threw him to the ground.
Maia saw the look of rage and fury in Carew’s eyes as he went after the young man, his sword raised to deliver a blow.
“Stop!” Maia shouted at him.
Carew ignored her and rushed up to kick the young man in the ribs. Prepared for the blow, Hove caught Carew’s leg before it landed and hoisted it up. Carew tottered and slammed down on his back, hard. There was a gasp from all who were assembled as the captain choked for breath, writhing on the ground. He clenched his stomach, tryin
g to breathe, and Hove got to his feet and kicked the other man’s sword away. He looked down at the fallen captain with triumph, his sword at the ready.
“It is over!” Maia shouted. “Leave him be.”
The white-and-black knight gave her a rebellious look, his cheeks flushed, his breathing hard, but it was clear he had won. He said nothing in reply, but she could see by his look that he would defy her. He adjusted his grip on his sword and prepared to plunge it into Carew’s stomach.
“You may be brave, but do not be a fool.”
Maia turned and watched as Dodd strode into the center of the tables, a battle-axe gripped in one hand. Next to her, Suzenne sucked in her breath, clearly terrified to see her husband join the fray.
“The queen said no blood would be spilled in her hall this night. Stand down,” Dodd said.
The feeling of dread intensified in the room as Dodd purposefully closed the distance separating him from the other men. If Hove struck down Carew, it would leave his back exposed to Dodd. The young knight seemed to realize the dilemma.
“And who are you?” Hove said derisively. “Another lackey sent to challenge me?”
“I am the Earl of Forshee, whom you claim to serve,” Dodd replied, his voice and temper controlled. “Lay down your arms. You won the duel fairly. I will grant you that, even if Carew had too many cups. Put down the sword, man.”
“I serve the true Earl of Forshee,” Hove said angrily, stepping away from the writhing captain and facing Dodd with a martial stance. “Our true king to be. The Medium has chosen him to rule over us, and he will purge the realm of traitors. The coronation today was a sham. Our true king comes even now.”
Dodd met him in the center, holding his axe blade down and away. “You are deceived, friend. The true ruler of Comoros is the king’s heir, his lawful daughter. Kranmir overstepped his authority, so the High Seer has deposed him. You know not what you are doing.”
Hove’s face twisted with resentment and anger. “The High Seer? She is corrupt. She has fallen into the shadows.”