Balhulla twisted her face. “We’ve only ever tried to help you.”
“Like when you had my parents killed?” Falhill jumped up and grabbed her neck. The little strength he had left rushed into his fingers as they closed around her windpipe.
Their personal guardsman Jeulfynhall pulled him off of her. Balhulla coughed out the door. The tall man held Falhill inches from his face. “I will tell Falhadn of your bravery. I will ensure she knows the truth. And I will protect her.” And Jeulfynhall marched outside.
Falhill didn’t know what to feel. He tried to visualize Balhulla’s terrified expression as he tightened his grip about her neck. His heartbeat hastened, and his lips stretched ear to ear.
Drivers burst into the room and seized Falhill — tossing him back into his birdcage. That was my chance, he thought. But what kind of life would that have been? He tried to tell Theral her grandson was alive and safe as could be, but she would not listen, mumbling curses and caressing the shards of teeth remaining in her mouth. Falhill collapsed and let his body drift into a deep slumber. His nightmares had turned back to dreams.
“Many of you know me. But I am the princess Bartembalhadn. Mother of the king’s latest grandson. Widow of General Bartemhill.” The princess stood on the long steps to the palace’s front gate. Her lush silver gown draped across a dozen steps. Five serving women lifter her train to preserve the gown’s pristine appearance. Princess Bartembalhadn pointed to Theral in her birdcage. “That woman slew my husband in cold blood. Theral served as my father’s justice and executioner. But when she pitied the criminals at the end of her axe, Theral swung that horrid headsman’s axe at my innocent husband.” The crowd of a thousand spectators wept with Bartembalhadn and spit at Theral the traitor.
Beside the princess stood the king’s child bride and the grand admiral. Behind them stood the High Prophet with his smoldering black arm. Princess Bartembalhadn continued, “My husband didn’t live long enough to meet his first son.” The little queen handed the nineteen-year-old princess her newborn, and Bartembalhadn held him up. The crowd oohed and aahed. “This beautiful boy may not ever be your king. But he will serve his grandfather, and later his cousins, faithfully and rigorously. But without a father, the child will grow up at a deficit. All thanks to Theral.”
Her wrinkled forehead furrowed. Theral jumped up and down, wearing nothing but her own excrement. “I’m going to be a queen!” she slurred through shattered teeth. “A queen, I say!” The crowd gasped.
“People of this holy kingdom, here is what a rebel looks like. This woman should be executed for her treasons, for her blasphemies, and for her murders!” Thunderous agreement. The ground shook with tremulous concurrence.
Palace guardsmen fetched a long, thick torch from inside a cavity in the palace’s façade. “Burn her!” the crowd chanted. Some added, “Eat her!” But Theral did not register a single word. She rattled the inside of her birdcage. So much movement wafted her stench towards Falhill’s cage.
Theral screeched. “Innocent! Innocent! Kraekhadn?! Innocent?! Mother?! Father?! Gaer?” She scratched at her neck, and crimson painted her filthy neck and chest. “For days, what are you thinking about?! Don’t look at me! No! Don’t taste that! You monster!” The guards lit the long, thick torch and held it beneath her. “Hrash! Hrash?! So beautiful! Hug me, darling! Embrace me! But don’t look at me!” Her birdcage heated up until Theral shrieked. With the leftover shards of her teeth, she bit into the flesh of her wrist. Still, some words formed. “Don’t make me do it! Don’t make me set the fire! It’s so hot! I’ll burn myself!”
Falhill vomited. He had to look away as the guards cooked her alive. Her terrible, bizarre screams finally died out. Anything is better than this.
Her charred corpse simmered. The blood and waste fizzed. But from the palace emerged a man in a majestic onyx mantle. The last Old Coaster Falhill had seen when the protestants fled Enesma. The chief False Priest floated down the palace steps. The crowd held its breath. Theul’s fingers brushed against the High Prophet’s smoldering demon arm — which Theul had himself conjured. At last, Theul landed at the base of the steps.
Falhill’s blood quickened. Theul Jadeflame had led the attack on Enesma. Theul ended his sister. Here stood the man Falhill needed to kill, for his sister’s honor. But he couldn’t do anything about it.
Theul’s hands glowed green. His eyes burned black. He breathed deep jade fire, and the crowd applauded.
Theul Jadeflame whipped his neck about to face the roasting corpse of Congresser Theral. In an instant, the corpse burst forth like an overripe mango. A geyser of gore erupted from the birdcage, enough blood to fill the veins of fifty men. The carnage coated Falhill’s face with warmth. Wild ovation from the onlookers. The Bloody Courtyard had once more earned its moniker.
Falhill prayed harder than he ever had, trying to drown out Theul’s shouts: “This man is a traitor, a blasphemer, a murderer. His parents alone protected the traitor Traamis from the king’s initial search parties. Then the rebels elevated him into a false congresser. This man Falhill does not deserve to breathe this very air.” He flicked his wrist, but Falhill could not tell if anything had happened. Theul flicked his wrist once more. Moisture began to drizzle from the heavens. Theul seemed surprised at the sudden precipitation.
Thin mist sprayed into his birdcage. “Hrash has not forgotten His servant,” the rain whispered. “Do not lose hope.” Falhill caught a glimpse of his wife in the throng of onlookers. He reckoned his sanity had gone with Theral.
Theul Jadeflame could barely project his voice over the din of the downpour. “In the name of Hrash and his incarnation here in this coil, I command this rain to cease.” But the rain hastened. “Cease!” The sun shone bright orange as the deluge accelerated.
The sideways gusts washed the gore from Falhill’s face. Thunder rolled over the high buildings, and the sky flashed blue — though Falhill could not spot the lightning. The crowds began to scatter — some panicked, others violent. Theul raised his arms to quell the riot, but a malevolent draft carried him up the palace steps and slammed him against the palace gates. Uandem took the king’s child bride and Bartembalhadn’s newborn prince and rushed them into the palace while Princess Bartembalhadn struggled to move.
The princess’s servant women scampered about to try and lift the immense silver gown, but the fabric had absorbed so much rainwater, it would not budge. Bartembalhadn fell to the steps trying to run.
City and palace guardsmen took refuge inside the squat watchtower, and the Jadeflame managed to find shelter within the palace. The crowd crossed the Duimwater moat — leaving two score behind, trampled and unmoving. Theral’s birdcage toppled in the tempest. The gales swept the massive apparatus towards the palace steps. Not one servant perished, but the large cage pulverized Princess Bartembalhadn. She lay in two bloody halves, engulfed in her silver gown. Her servants bolted towards the palace gates as the cool afternoon tempest crescendoed to fever pitch.
The hurricane heaved immeasurable bucketfuls of cleansing water against Falhill’s face, his broken nose, his gaunt body. He could breathe, truly breathe for the first time in weeks. He listened to the song of the storm. He tasted the salt of the sea. He smelled the grime wash away.
The shriek of iron against iron. His cage plunged towards salvation. I see her face in the marble. I see her face in the slate. Falhill didn’t feel his own skull shatter and explode against the Bloody Courtyard.
Epilogue
Water had never been so sweet. It ran down her throat like lifeblood. The caress of fresh irrigation brought chills to her spine.
“Two hounds? Must have been terrifying,” the tall blonde-haired soldier said to her. “Foaming at the mouth? Did it bite you?”
Balsithedeen shook her head and continued to gulp at the carafes of filtered water, sitting in the middle of the floor of a lounge area.
When one carafe emptied, the short black-haired soldier handed her another. “Rabid,” he conclud
ed. “We have some ointments for that sort of thing, and some herbs to put in your tea.”
“Tea?” she asked. “Do you have oolong tea?” The thought of hot tea made her stomach growl.
The short soldier nodded. “Would you like sugar, cinnamon, milk?”
Balsithedeen stopped herself from crying. “Cinnamon, please.” And the short soldier left the room.
“What did you say your name was?” asked the other.
She inhaled. “Balsithedeen. Ambassador Balsithedeen, really.”
“Ambassador?”
“From the colony Hrashhill.”
“The rebels?”
“Yes, Soldier. We like to call ourselves protestants, though.”
“You don’t seem frightened of us. We still serve King Yaangd.”
“Congresser Drea told me I might find you this way. He told me not to worry — that you were old friends of his.”
The tall soldier raised his eyebrows. “Congresser Drea? What else did he say?”
Balsithedeen craned to reach into her waistpouch. She removed Drea’s letter. “He told me what was basically in it, but he did not allow me to read the letter — state secrets and all.”
The tall soldier took the letter, rife with curiosity. He unrolled the parchment and read Drea’s words. He nodded as he poured over every word. When he finished, he rolled up the parchment and stuck it halfway in his breeches. “My name is Calnhall. Soldier Calnhall.” He held out his hand.
She shook it, smiling. “Nice to make your acquaintance.”
“You know, I was in Eangd during the rebellion. I think a rebel killed my mother.”
“A kingsman killed my aunt and uncle.”
“I pray it wasn’t me.”
Balsithedeen’s lips reached towards both ears, but only melancholy filled her mouth. “How fares the mainland? It’s been three months since we left.”
“It’s been two months since I sailed for duty at this outpost. But in that one month after you left, the rebellion seemed to dissolve. When supplies arrived a few weeks ago, a sailor told me that Traamis’s daughter Fenhadn escaped royal custody in Kreafer. The governor had been pretending he had her all this time, but lost her months ago! But that’s nothing to worry about.”
The short soldier returned with herbal tea. Calnhall gestured to him. “Say hello to Soldier Gerrishill.”
“Hello.”
“Happy we found you when we did,” Gerrishill said. He handed her the tea. “Fortune favors you…”
“Ambassador Balsithedeen.”
Calnhall shrugged his shoulders. “She’s one of the rebels — er, I mean, protestants.”
Gerrishill chuckled. “Is that the truth?”
“And she brought us a letter from Drea Drysword, a rebel congresser.” He held the rolled up parchment. “She wasn’t allowed to read it. For our eyes only.”
Gerrishill took the letter and read it. His thick lips moved as he studied the words. Balsithedeen sipped at the fresh hot tea. “Drea did say you could fill me in on some of the details,” she lied. Curiosity never killed anyone.
Gerrishill finished the letter, and Calnhall looked at his short companion. “The congresser wants to ensure the rebel colony doesn’t starve come winter,” Calnhall answered. “If worse comes to worse, he’s willing to pay good coin for extra supplies from this outpost.”
Balsithedeen blew on her tea. “That’s very forward thinking of him.”
Gerrishill handed his tall companion the letter. “Congresser Drea is a very smart man. Knows who his friends are.”
Calnhall brushed his fingers through his light blonde hair. “So, Ambassador, you said? What does that entail?”
She finished her tea. “I’m on a quest to seek out new cultures and societies and to acquaint them with our culture and society. We’re hoping to establish foreign trade routes by the end of the solar cycle.” She yawned. “The tea was very good. Thank you, Gerrishill.” She rose to her knees, but her legs remained very weak. “I have to set out, try to seek out…”
“You are still feeble from the dehydration and that wild animal attack,” Calnhall said. “We insist you rest here. Just for a few days, so you can build up your strength.”
Balsithedeen stretched her arms. “I am very tired.”
“Here,” Gerrishill offered, “we’ll carry you upstairs. Calnhall and I can sleep down here a few days.”
So the two kingsmen carried Balsithedeen upstairs. Fatigue blurred her vision. What nice men, she thought hazily before falling unconscious.
Balsithedeen sat up in her feather bed. Her wounds had scarred over. Her neck muscles had loosened. She wiggled her toes and stretched her fingers. Her thighs still ached, and her feet would soon throb once she walked around. Balsithedeen twisted so that her legs hung over the bedside.
Some mornings, she would awake to this strange bedroom yet forget she was stuck miles and miles from her family and friends. But this morning, Balsithedeen breathed in the saline air and knew it was time to leave her purgatory.
Weeks had passed. Calnhall applied aloe and rum balm every day, and Gerrishill made his culinary talents well known. Though daily inactivity had sealed the gashes in Balsithedeen’s young flesh, it had also dulled her sinew and wearied her mind. Maybe another day or two of physical recuperation, but Balsithedeen resolved to continue on her quest as Hillite ambassador.
She waddled downstairs, where Calnhall awaited with his oils. The aroma of rosemary and beef wafted into the main room. “I think peppermint will suffice for this morning.” Calnhall held up a stubby vial. “Perhaps balsam tonight, if there’s any inflammation.”
“I think it’s about time I head east. I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done for my sake.”
Calnhall pocketed the vial. “Leave? You just got here. Your neck.”
“It’s just… I had a job. And I can’t head back now. Eleim’s death would be for nothing.”
“You’re not better yet. You’ve got at least another month until you can go out there on your own.”
“I have yet to earn the name Ambassador Balsithedeen. I can’t stop until I find a new ally, a new trade route. My friends and family are counting on me.”
“Drea instructed that we take care of you if you’re sick or injured. In his letter. He emphatically commanded you stay under our protection until you’re strong enough to leave.”
Balsithedeen let herself fall into a chair. “How much longer?”
“No more than seven weeks.” Calnhall shuffled to her side. “Remember, I worked in Uandem’s herbal gardens for years. Some soldier I am. Don’t even know what this sword looks like outside its sheath.” He produced a long, thin vial from inside his sleeve. “Perhaps the balsam is warranted. Lean forward please.”
She obeyed, and Calnhall gently massaged her neck and upper back. The fragrance of sweet amber reminded her of vanilla. Gerrishill presented her with strips of rosemary beef over scrambled eggs, which she devoured. Gerrishill seemed to know precisely what Balsithedeen’s empty stomach desired.
“There’s some for us still in the kitchen,” Gerrishill muttered to his companion. He turned to Balsithedeen. “I’m glad someone enjoys my food. Four years I cooked for Shelyrbm himself. The High Prophet told all his guests I was the pride of Eangd.”
Her mouth half-full, Balsithedeen replied, “You cooked for the High Prophet? Why are you here?”
“Oh, it’s a boring story. Suffice it to say the king stripped Shelyrbm of his…privileges.” He rapped his knuckles against the mahogany of her chair. “Don’t leave a crumb.” And he joined Calnhall in the kitchen.
Balsithedeen slowed her eating. When she had first arrived, she made herself sick swallowing bite after bite in quick succession. Though a difficult task, she disallowed her brain to feel comfortable in this place.
Over the weeks, she had pulled more information out of them. She really wanted to know what Drea Drysword had written in his secret letter, but the Old Coast soldiers refus
ed to give anything else up. She regretted not reading it on the journey here, but reminded herself that her authorities had commanded it of her. It was her duty.
However, Calnhall and Gerrishill could get very chatty about their history. With everything they had revealed, Balsithedeen was surprised Gerrishill never mentioned cooking for the High Prophet. The two of them started to feel like friends. Sure, Calnhall could edge on rudeness. Gerrishill occasionally condescended. But they remained kind.
Then, why am I starting to get the feeling they’re my captors?
Calnhall returned from the kitchen, tufts of beef stuck in his front teeth. “Gerrishill and I need to hunt. Not to sound like a bad host, but feeding three mouths is quite different than feeding two.”
“Both of you are going?”
Calnhall’s mouth twitched. “You’re sharing a privy with a cook and a gardener. We weren’t sent to this Hrash-forsaken outpost for our swordplay or archery.” He forced a laugh. “You should probably rest. And that will keep you occupied while we’re away, can’t watch after you.”
From her strange bedroom, Balsithedeen peered through a narrow window to watch Calnhall and Gerrishill march northwards through the midmorning mud. North sat an oaken valley, teeming with elk and wild sheep. Her heart pumped as Calnhall turned to regard Balsithedeen’s window with suspicion. The two kingsmen receded from view, and Balsithedeen took in a deep breath.
Can’t watch after you, she remembered. The looks Calnhall gave her. Leave? he had said. Under our protection. Take care of you. At least another month. She felt silly worrying about anything he had said in isolation. But something in her gut compelled her to rise from her bed. Blood rushed to her head, but she blinked away her doubt. Her feet led her towards Calnhall’s bedroom.
She crossed the threshold into the dark room. Thick black curtains covered the two windows. She didn’t want to let light into the room. If Calnhall returned, he would see the curtains of his room had moved. She started with his wardrobe.
The Heirs of History: A Nation From Nothing Page 38