The king protects himself well.
The tower was regal and carpeted, though there were many windows and turret chambers. Most were closed, but he peered inside the doors left askance. They were squat but warm, and had the grace of a proud people with a rich history. His own cell was larger, but was like its kin in all other respects.
“It will not be long,” the knights told him when they closed the door.
Stephen had waited for three hours.
He knew the Marcanas brothers wanted him to wait and stew, but the knowledge did not make the affair less aggravating.
Another hour of waiting, and the door to his cell chamber finally opened. A lanky man stood in the doorway. He was garbed in a long red robe, trimmed with green silk, and his face was long and narrow, with a close shaved beard, and gaunt, dark hollow eyes. “I am Prince Adonis of the House Marcanas, Lord Sovereigns of the Kingdom of Trecht, heirs to the throne. A younger brother, to be sure, but I serve King Tristifer. My eldest brother, still, one so young has need of good counsel. May I sit across from you, Counsel?”
“Of course,” Stephen remarked, studying the royal brother, not sure what to make of the man.
The prince sat down with a flowing grace, and dropped a stack of parchments on the table like they were a sack of potatoes. Stephen thought it an odd display of dignity and common abruptness. Prince Adonis sifted through them, oblivious, and Stephen could not help but notice the man’s youth, no more than twenty-three seasons, and serving a king not much older than that.
They may be young, but men much older may be whispering in their ears.
“Counsel of Faith Father Stephen Francis of the Theocracy of Dalia—our mortal enemies. I am not a man of faith, Counsel, few remain so in Trank and beyond. Over three hundred years ago, your forebears took all the pious east with you. It was a power struggle as betwixt king and church. The god has changed, but your faith remains. We have not become overly pious in the years left to us, though few conventions we have held. Anointed knights among them; though you would doubtless see them less than faithful.”
“In time, all men see the Light of Mother God.”
“None here would see the truth in that. Least of all me. Ah, here it is,” the prince withdrew a parchment from the stack, and placed it in front of him. “This is a royal warrant, for the traitors to the crown, if you would see them safely—”
“I am not here to deliver you the three traitors to your custody,” Stephen declared. “They are to meet Mother God in Judgment. Such is the fate of men who bring displeasure to Her and ruin to Her people.”
“O-oh,” Prince Adonis smiled wickedly. “For a man of cloth to speak as such is quite revealing. If it is all the same, King Tristifer does not know how you would accomplish such a task. It is true that our own men betrayed the crown our father wore, but we are well versed in what you have, and what you do not.”
Yes, your informers. Fewer now than they were before. Enjoy the last fragments of secrecy whilst it lasts. “Then you know that our strength is greater than it was. Not enough to challenge your sovereignty, but enough to give you pause.”
“We do not fear any foe. You do intrigue us, I will admit, though it would be hardly becoming for the king to be seen consorting with the Faith. It rubs too raw of our failure years ago.”
“That is why I am here, and why you are here. Do not think me a country bumpkin who spends all his time locked in prayer and confession, Prince Adonis. I know that your king cannot come to me. If word reached the ears of your nobles, it would not bode well for him, I would think. The same accords to the Voice. Priests, stewards, and scholars alike would tear her down, and that would be the end of it all. You and I are the hope of our monarchs. To supplement each other’s strengths.”
“We have no need of strength.”
“Do you know what Overlord Damian Dannars possesses?”
“Lies and conjecture. A desperate man in a desperate time.”
“He has the power of gods.”
Stephen let that sink in. Prince Adonis’ face was half pained and half wondering, pondering the truth of the words. “What proof would you offer of this?”
“The blinding light was not enough?” Stephen asked plaintively. “Your whisperers in Isilia have been quiet, have they not?”
The prince sat back, puzzlement in his eyes. “It is true that we have not heard from those we placed in Isilia. They spoke much for three years, then suddenly silent. We saw this light too, but consider it a foreign problem. We are still learning of it, but King Tristifer he—”
“Does not see much use in such an investigation.”
“That is true of my brother. My father, the late king, he was obsessed with his birthright. People, land, gold, it did not matter. My father’s obsession sent him to the grave. My brother saw to that, and I said naught. This is not the old Trecht, Counsel, so tell me: why should we care?”
“The overlord destroyed all life in Isilia.”
“Do you take me for a fool?”
“I take you for a man who understands opportunity. Short of taking you into his lands, I cannot prove my words to you. Yet, if you but trust me, I will give to you what Damian Dannars and Daniel Baccan promised your father all those years ago.”
“It was a lie. Naught but falsehoods and deceit.”
“Every lie contains a mote of truth, you should know that as well as I. Trust in me, and I will give your brother what ruined your father without a single drop of blood.”
Prince Adonis stared listlessly at his parchments, mulling over the words. Stephen hoped the young prince was chewing them, seeing what they tasted like. He served a tempting, deliciously seductive dish, wrought with risk.
Though not just to him.
“What is it that you would ask of the crown?” the prince asked at last.
“Ships. I have the men, my Faithsworn, to bring down the overlord from his lofty perch, sack his hearth and home, tear apart all that he holds dear. Alas, I do not have the ships to protect them from his fleet.”
“You said not a drop of blood, if I do recall.”
“I do not ask for your men. Just your ships.”
“What is to stop you from not returning them? Not that we would fear your might, but it seems a needless waste if you are more like to betray us.”
“Is the God Stone not worth the risk?”
Prince Adonis seemed pained, and he looked at Stephen in pity and grief. Naught was said for minutes until the young prince gathered his parchments and made for the door. “The God Stone was my father’s obsession. All the lies of people, land, and gold—it was all a façade before that god-forsaken treasure. It stole his throne and his life. My brother will not pursue it for this.”
“You are a good son and a worthy brother, Prince Adonis, my eyes can see that. You do not blame the God Stone, not much as you say. Vengeance for what consumed your father, that is the coin you wish to barter with.”
“Why do confessors always know?”
Stephen smiled knowingly.
“You will hear from us soon,” the prince said.
Stephen was sequestered in his cell. Three times a day there would be a rap at his door when muted servants would bring him eggs and black bacon to break his fast. Bowls of hot piping soup and bread would come at noon, and then plates of mutton, lamb, or roasted chicken with peas and potatoes at the supper hour. Once or twice he tried to speak to the servant—a mousey girl with flaxen brown hair—but she offered no response or acknowledgement.
Around noon on the fourth day, Prince Adonis returned, and supped with Stephen on a light lunch: a thick stew of mutton, carrots, and turnips.
“It is as I told you, Counsel, the king does not want this God Stone,” the prince said.
“Are you here to refuse me?” Stephen asked, not believing a word of it.
“No,” Prince Adonis said, mouth full of meat. “There is an opportunity that presents itself, with the traitors. My brother and I would like naught more
than their heads on spikes. They deserve no less for the lives of thousands who died vainly. If you would deliver these to us, what are a fleet of ships?”
“Mother God blesses us.”
“Not quite,” Prince Adonis said curtly, pointing at Stephen with a butter knife. “My brother does not desire the God Stone, yet he fears it in the wrong hands. Damian is bad enough, but he does not know you or the men and women who rule your country, and lest you all be saints, he would not trust you with it.”
“He will take the gift of it, then.”
“That is my hope, and you will have your ships.”
Lunch done, Prince Adonis excused himself to attend to other matters of state. “If you do not mind,” Stephen said before the prince left. “I would like to send messages to my own knights. May I beg a courier?”
“That is afforded. We must read your messages of course. I shall arrange it this afternoon.”
“Of course. My thanks.”
The letter was brief, no more than a few lines when Stephen handed it to the courier that night. No doubt the squirrely man was taking it straight to the king’s brother. All he would read is patience, stand, and wait. What Stephen wanted Ser Rupert to know is: hope is dimmed but not lost; save the red sun for days still.
That will be enough time. It must.
The next morning, Stephen was visited once more by Prince Adonis. King Tristifer wished for the ships to be captained and crewed by his own men. “My brother sees the sense in your proposal, but is ever weary of treachery. If aught is amiss, he wants to end your efforts before they begin.”
Stephen did not want this, but it seemed like the only way to restore the faithful to sea. “We will serve at the will of your captains and crew. The Faithsworn will give their lives to them, and cleave our foes.” See what the king thinks of that subservience!
“The king will be pleased to know you understand his concerns.”
Upon the sixth day, the deal was struck. The news was accompanied by a serving maid that Stephen had seen once every morning to put down fresh sheets. “Prince Adonis wishes for you to have this,” she said, handing over a great golden coin wrapped in green and yellow silk. “The prince says it will remind you of the tryst that was made.”
It seemed like an ordinary coin. On one side was Castle Marcanas, and on the other was an engraving of a strong faced, long haired man.
This must be his brother, the king, or perhaps the father? The elder son has put much emphasis on trade. Minting new coins would be understandable.
He also read three phrases that lined the outside of the coin: Justice for the king. Justice for the people. Justice for the kingdom. “I shall not forget it.”
The maid hurried out as swiftly as her short legs would carry her. The door closed, and he felt the life being choked out of him, coin and cloth both falling heedlessly to the ground. A black gloved hand was crushing his throat. His feet dangled in the air while he was pushed hard against the wall. The attacker looked to be all in black, with a long cloak trailing behind him.
“I-I c-cannot b-breathe,” he cried out.
“You were not given life again for this!” the attacker boomed in a deep masculine voice, throaty and hoarse. “Politics and power play. We were meant for more than this.”
Stephen felt his vocal chords collapsing. His bones creaked. “P-please I—”
He fell abruptly to the floor and put both hands to his throat, sucking in air greedily. He looked up and across the room to the black cloaked man, his back to him, looking out the window.
“W-who are you?” Stephen asked hoarsely.
The man turned around swiftly, and a pair of dead, crimson eyes glowed from beneath the cowl, as if they wept blood.
“M-my regrets,” Stephen stammered.
“Have you found It?”
It? The Spherule of Pyre. No, that is what was given to me by-by the Warden! No, no this is all wrong. Who are these people? Do they not want the same thing?
“Amos was wrong to trust to you.” In the blink of an eye, the crimson pits were a hand pace from Stephen’s face, staring death into him. “When comfort gone, p’rhaps you shall serve.” The cloaked man reached into his robe and withdrew the relic he was entrusted with; it was red and bright, illuminating the tower cell. The cloaked stranger crushed it to pieces. “Where is it?!”
“I-it is what I was given. The Warden gave it to me. S-sent by L-Lord Aleksander. P-please…”
“Listen well, man of Mother God,” the stranger said as he swirled away, looking to the east. “The Warden is false. He plots and schemes, thinking himself above Sariel. We shall not let that pass.” The cloaked man paused, as if in thought. “I have been asked not to go there, but you will. The pincers must choke the life out of the false Warden, and Overlord Damian Dannars. If the brotherhood falters in their charge, you will find the Spherule of Pyre, Counsel Stephen Francis, and deliver it to me.”
“Y-yes,” Stephen stammered.
“Betray the dark god once more, and you will discover a Darkness that your Light cannot breach.”
“Do you require aught, Counsel? Did something fall?”
It was the voice of the serving maid. “No, I am merely restless. I must sleep, if you do not mind?”
The footsteps faded down the winding stair, and he turned to see that the cloaked man was gone.
Fear and dread seemed to lift in an instant. He felt alone, so terribly alone. All that remained was him, but it was an empty feeling; a part of him felt missing, like his heart was torn from his body.
I need my Faithsworn, now more than ever.
Chapter Twenty-One
Shades of Prophecy
Aerona ran.
She chased the daemon south and east, past thin forests of oak and elm; across narrow streams and wind swept plains. Men who dared show their faces in the predawn gloom pointed the way the man had went. Hours folded into hours, and while she saw traces of her quarry, she did not think he would be caught. She traded her mount at a small town and sent messengers to Darelle.
Secrecy no longer matters, only the prey.
Hours came and went. Allies that would have sold her for coppers came now with news and resolve: the villain had turned east, passing the Qinnan river, pushing hard, tearing up the ground as he went. “It is as if that Dalian be needin’ no rest,” Aerona was told.
“Then we must push our limits,” she replied.
Darelle joined her in the late afternoon with news that his men went far and wide to try and cut the daemon off. She applauded the effort, but too much time had passed; if the man did not wish to be caught, he would not. Unless the healer meant to double back, he was making for Lakarn.
Father, watch over me.
The night that passed started this chase. Aerona was in the lichyard, knees on the ground, thinking of her father. Davat had come, lugged her up, and pushed her forward. He did not take her sword nor anything else she possessed.
It was late, after midnight, and the cobbled streets were quiet. Arriving at the Overlord’s Seat, she saw that the gate was open, and only a few lights glittered. Davat brought her into the main hallway and released his grip. Men, women, and children all lay dead; their crimson cloaked protectors were limp puddles on the floor. A blackened, charred smell filled the air, and the halls were streams of blood.
Davat leapt from man to man, feeling for the heart beats of his men in crimson. After the seventh man had proved lifeless, he resolved himself. “I did not know what river scum he had dealings with.”
“None of us did, Davat,” Aerona said kindly. The grief of the moment was overwhelming her, but she needed to be strong.
He looked at her scornfully. “Save your pity, Harpy. We have men to kill. I will see if their blood runs black.”
Davat ran off towards the eastern stair, and Aerona followed, leaping over bodies, pushing others aside who blocked doors. The steps were no cleaner or less horrifying: servants and maids draped down the stone, blood puddling beneat
h gashes in their skulls. They all fled the madness in these halls, and not being warriors themselves she could hardly blame them.
She came to the third floor, and saw the murals that depicted the history of the islands were marred with shadows and blood; and men in crimson cloaks were pinned against the wall with long swords through their guts. A pile of corpses stacked up against the entrance to the throne room, and she thought the worst. Davat did not look to see who it was; he pushed against the oaken doors, and as it opened, the bodies fell inward.
Damian was on his backside, edging towards his ruined throne, battered and broken, as if a storm whipped through and tore it asunder. In front of him was a tall man: cloaked, dark red mail beneath, and a sword of fire stretched out, oppressively hot. The overlord was sweating, terror on his face. His lips seemed to move, but no words came out.
“Sheathe your sword!” Davat cried out, drawing steel. “Do you know where you stand, worm? Put up your blade. Put up your thrice-cursed blade!”
The man who wielded the sword of fire half turned, and let out a mocking laugh, but it sounded more like a cackle. Davat bore a hardened, fury in his eyes, and a pained, resolved expression on his face.
Near breathless, Aerona thought Damian muttered, “No.”
Davat charged heedlessly, and so did the cloaked man. Their swords met in the middle of the hall. The fire from the blade of steel was so intense that Aerona felt its heat near the doors. Davat was pushed down towards the ground, and the flaming sword was cutting through the steel.
“Flee!” Aerona screamed, unable to move.
“No scum walks about these halls and—”
A sickening sound of bones cracking and searing flesh filled the chamber. Davat screamed shrilly as his steel was severed. The burning brand cut through him like jelly: the two halves of his body a bloody pyre.
“All men die,” the stranger croaked.
Aerona refused to let the moment freeze her heart or weaken her resolve. “There are more than men in this chamber,” she proudly declared, withdrawing her father’s sword, Vindication.
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