“I have dispatched my two cousins to the Court of Bariil. They are pleading our case to anyone who will listen. My mother, I have sent to Ulmer. She is the sister of King Clement and has been received with open arms. Her king brother has yet to grant us more than a pittance in aid, but I have faith that his charity will increase as the cackle of the Cul draws nearer to his borders. As to your high lord, he has answered thusly — Merridia is wrought with plague and inner turmoil and not a man can be spared. But the high lord has promised to pray nightly for our kingdom atop his Throne of Roses.” Ianin spit. “Everything moves slowly in the fair palaces of kings and high lords yet here the Shadow creeps as it ever does. So while your lord battles the madness of the Blackheart and the heresy of Prince Meriatis, we Dunie fight the only battle that really matters, the war against the creeping terrors of the Shadow.”
“I do not know how to respond,” said Emethius. “It is a tragedy of the greatest magnitude. I can only pray that some deliverance is found.”
“Are you so foolish as to believe that prayer actually works?” scoffed Ianin. “Or were you simply trying to be kind? The gods have forsaken this land, and only the blades of my people keep the devil at bay.” Ianin sat in silence for a minute, letting his frustration subside. “So, now that you know what has happened to my land, what do you intend to do? Will you turn tail and return to Mayal, or continue on with your foolish errand?”
Emethius almost fell over in surprise. Lord Ianin did not mean to stop them.
“This news changes nothing,” said Malrich, answering before Emethius had fully processed the information. “We will press onward.”
Emethius’s eyebrows flared with surprise. He had always known the last leg of their journey would be fraught with danger, but this sounded a lot like suicide. Contending with the Cul from the Barren Tracks onward was considerably different than contending with the Cul only through the Cultrator. Or was it? “If we venture the Barren Tracks, we could travel safely by day. And at night, two might find sanctuary within a shelf of rock or a hidden cave, while an army a thousand strong would have no choice but to lay in the open waiting for the Cul.”
Lord Ianin nodded in agreement. “What you propose has been accomplished before, although never under such circumstances as these. Countless Dunie warriors have journeyed into the Cultrator. None have returned. We joke that a honed blade is the best cure for the affliction, but there is a more honorable path one can take. We call it the Long Walk. Those afflicted with the Blackheart may enter the Cultrator alone, armed with nothing but a bow and a blade. One’s only responsibility: slay as many Cul as you can before you enter the hereafter. Highborn or low, man or woman, it does not matter. The Long Walk is open to all.”
“Do you have any idea how far most make it?” wondered Malrich.
“My own uncle, Lord Cador, holds the record,” said Ianin. “He undertook the journey some years ago after he began to show the symptoms of the affliction. The marchwardens atop the tower of Interleads were able to mark his progress based on the smoke signals he sent up each night at dusk. He made it as far as the Puttdale River before he stopped sending signals. But my uncle was an extraordinarily dangerous and cunning man. I doubt his success will ever be replicated.”
“It will have to be if we hope to succeed,” said Emethius, seeing no harm in sharing their mission. “Our destination lies just beyond where your uncle vanished.”
“Bi Ache,” said Ianin with a knowing nod. “You think a cure is hidden in those blighted ruins? Perhaps. It is hard to say what the Cella unearthed before the Cul burned their kingdom to the ground.” He leaned forward, seeming to take a genuine interest in Emethius’s plan. “I will give you the same advice I give anyone who is about to undertake the Long Walk. The Cul will not enter the light, and by day you will be safe. But the Cul own the Shadow and the night. The Cul are at their strongest when we are crippled by darkness and our vision is at its worst. Avoid shadowed valleys and never enter caves or hollows in the earth. If there is mist, there are Cul nearby. They are supernatural creatures, but they can be killed. They seem to fear fire, and a blade will kill a Cul as easily as it does a man.”
Ianin shook his head. “Only madness would guide one into the realm of the Cul, yet here you sit before me, claiming to be of sound mind and cause. The two of you will die, of this I am sure, but what am I to do other than oblige your request? The gods will sort out the ignorant from the wise.”
“If it is the will of the gods, I will die for my cause,” said Emethius. “And Malrich is foolish enough to follow me somewhere he should not.”
Malrich shrugged off Sir Bilis’s hands and rose proudly at Emethius’s side. “It’s an ill-advised sense of loyalty, yet all the same, I will follow Emethius wherever he leads me.”
Ianin chuckled. “What a gift it is to be your friend, Emethius. You’ll risk your life to save one friend while dragging another to his death.” He turned to Sir Bilis.
“Give these men the same provisions we would grant someone about to undertake the Long Walk. Ropes, a bow, arrows, and food.” Ianin looked to Malrich and Emethius. “I don’t take lightly the dispersal of my provisions. Kill as many of the Cul as you can before the Shadow takes you.”
CHAPTER
IV
THE ADMIRAL
The door clicked shut behind her, sealing Leta and Admiral Ferrus in the captain’s quarters. They were alone, which was not ideal. Leta had just accused Admiral Ferrus of being a rebel, which, in effect, made him an enemy of the Court. And now I’m locked in a room with him. Not exactly the brightest of moves.
“I apologize for the mess,” said Ferrus as he busied himself clearing empty bottles, unclean dishes, and discarded clothes from the two small couches set in the center of the cabin.
Admiral Ferrus’s private cabin was much like the exterior of the ship, dark and opulent. The walls were made of ebony, while stained-glass windows created a collage of colors that encircled three quarters of the room. Leta stopped in front of a large round table which had an intricate map carved into its face. The island of Elyim lay in the middle, and like the spokes of a wheel, all of the great cities of Elandria were linked to it by rhumb lines.
“I never knew Elyim was the center of the world,” said Leta. She ran her hand along the ridges and eddies, tracing a line between Mayal to Elyim.
“My father thought it was so,” said Ferrus, taking a seat upon a couch. He patted the open spot next to him. Leta took a seat across from him instead. His face curled in feigned injury. “Elyim is the center of trade. And trade runs the world, does it not, priestess?”
Ferrus’s late father, Admiral Nolus Leair, had been a coarse man even at the best of times. As far as the old patriarch was concerned faith was important, but money always reigned supreme. On more than one occasion he toed the line of treason to keep his coffers full. He once broke a trade embargo against the Kingdom of Emonia by transporting Tremelese weapons. On another occasion, he imported grains harvested by Emoni slaves into the Merridian market. These, and other unscrupulous transactions made him very rich — by many accounts his family had accumulated more wealth than any other house in Merridia — but it also made Admiral Nolus a near constant political opponent of Leta’s father. It was not a stretch to assume that Ferrus had inherited his father’s rebellious streak.
“Elyim is in the midst of it all,” agreed Leta. “The grand crossroads between Eremel and Tremel. But tell me, is Elyim also the center of the rebellion?” She saw no reason to delay getting to the point.
“Ah, so there is the question.” Ferrus jumped to his feet a little too eagerly and began to pour a pair of drinks from a crystal decanter. “I think a stiff drink would serve us both well if you truly intend to have such a treasonous discussion.” He laid a glass before Leta, which she left untouched, and then sat unwelcomed beside her on the couch.
She scooted away from him.
Ferrus acted like he didn’t notice and sipped at his glass nonchalan
tly. “The rebellion has no center,” said Ferrus. “But that was always the point. When your brother built his base of support, he did so by sowing the seeds of truth amongst the people. But wisdom can only travel so fast, and lies are often preferable to facts. Thus, stubborn and ignorant men have conspired to undermine your brother’s message.”
“And what message is that?”
Ferrus smiled and placed his glass upon the table, covering the island of Elyim. “I would like to show you a different map.” He jumped to his feet and began to rummage through a bin filled with nautical maps. He returned with a rolled piece of parchment that was almost as long as he was tall. “I’ve heard you’ve been asking around for this,” said Ferrus, as he unrolled the map — it was so large its edges hung over the lip of the table. At first glance, it looked like any other map of Eremel, showing the political boundaries between Merridia, Emonia, and Dunis. Then Leta noticed that there were multiple sets of numbers written next to every city, town, and village. Lengthy calculations were scribbled anywhere there was open space on the map.
Leta’s eyes went wide. “This is Meriatis’s census.”
Ferrus nodded. “The first set of numbers beside each location are the results of the Peltir Census, which was performed fifty years ago. The second set of numbers are the results collected by your brother. Even an untrained eye should note a trend.”
“The population has decreased.” Leta only needed a few seconds to realize this was true in nearly ever major city on the map.
“Correct. What other patterns do you see?”
Leta squinted at the map, trying to detect what other secrets were hidden within the hundreds and hundreds of scribbled numbers. “The closer a city is to Mount Calaban, the greater the population drop.”
“Right again. The population decrease is almost thirty percent in Etro and Burrowick. A little less in towns a bit farther away. Estri was in the mid-twenties. Mayal actually experienced growth, but that’s only because of the influx of refugees out of Dunis. For a more accurate figure, look at Caore. Caore and Mayal are nearly the same distance from Mount Calaban, and Caore experienced a population drop in the high teens.”
“Caore? Meriatis got population numbers from the Emoni?”
“King Clement was happy to share the information,” answered Ferrus. His glass was already half empty, and at the rate he was drinking the remainder wouldn’t last long. “The Emoni performed their own census and saw the exact same trend. When all of the numbers are tallied, the total population drop averages out to a little over ten percent.”
“Ten percent doesn’t seem like much.”
“It is when you consider where the population should be. This is the first census to show a drop in population since the founding of Merridia.” He sighed. “This is a slow bleed, Leta. It’s not the type of change anyone would notice over the course of fifty years. But I think there is a trend we have all felt. The number of children has plummeted. It’s not that people aren’t having children, it’s that children aren’t surviving to adulthood.”
Leta’s own son was part of that awful statistic. “You’re saying the Blackheart is to blame.”
Ferrus nodded. “Meriatis consulted several Ilmwellian Arithmetics. The calculations have been confirmed many times over. If these trends continue, the population of Eremel will be cut in half within a hundred years. A century after that, there will hardly be anybody left.”
Mayal was full of half-sane priests who regularly proclaimed that the end was near, but Leta had never met someone who actually had numbers to back up their claim. A chill worked through her body. “What does the proximity to Mount Calaban have to do with it?”
“Meriatis’s census revealed a simple truth — the closer one resides to Calaban, the more likely it is that they will get sick. The Blackheart is oozing from the monolith of Calaban like a cancer. This is not, as your father insists, a test from the gods to measure our faith and resolve. This is a plague sent from on high to drive us into extinction.”
“Has my father seen these results?”
Ferrus frowned. “Meriatis showed anyone who would listen. Your father concluded that the results were fake. As did Praetor Maxentius and Herald Cenna. Only Herald Carrick believed your brother’s findings; we both know how that ended for the good Herald.” He drew his finger across his throat in case she missed the point. “Your father and the people who surround him would rather be complacent and compliant to the gods than do a damn thing to save their own people. They gave your brother no choice but to rebel. Meriatis died to reveal the truth; if need be, I will do the same.” There was genuine grief in Ferrus’s eyes, and he was grasping his drink glass so hard, it looked ready to shatter in his hands. Leta placed her hand atop his, and he relaxed his grip.
“Are there others who are like-minded?”
“More than you would guess,” said Ferrus. “I see the worry in your eyes — we are not your enemy. The armed rebellion died with your brother. We win now through the perseverance of our message. The people want to hear the truth, and slowly but surely the truth will spread, whether it be through a pamphlet someone finds discarded on a street, or a private discussion at a family dinner. And when a million voices rise up and cry for change, what will the gods be able to do but acquiesce to our demands?”
“They are gods,” scoffed Leta, in disbelief at his forthrightness. “The Calabanesi will do as they always have; they will guide and prod and whisper, but they will never directly intervene. They will not break the Covenant.”
“Meriatis intended to force the Calabanesi to take action.”
“Then Meriatis was a fool.” How could her brother have possessed such hubris? The gods told mortals what to do, not the other way around. She felt like she needed a stiff drink to partake in such sacrilegious talk. She took a sip from the glass Ferrus had given her; the pungent alcohol burned her throat like fire and she curled her nose in disgust. This brought a smile to Ferrus’s face.
“United we are their equal, divided we don’t stand a chance.” Ferrus took her hand within his own. “You are in danger, Leta.” The smell of drink wafted on his breath.
Leta scoffed and wrenched her hand free. “No more than you are, admiral.”
“Maybe quite a bit more, in fact.” His face hardened. “There is a saying amongst sailors; sharks always circle blood.”
“How do you think it is that I came here? I followed General Saterius; he has marked your scent and is circling even as we speak.”
Ferrus dismissed the notion with a wave of hand. “They know what I am, and still, they don’t dare touch me.”
“Why?”
“Because I give them peace when I could as easily give them war. My ships control the arteries of trade. I could bring famine to the hinterlands. I could harry the coast. I could blockade every port from Mayal to Henna Lu. But I do none of this. My father was a wise man, and he taught me only to fight the battles I can win. I have ships, yes, but I do not possess the soldiers necessary to win an armed rebellion.”
“At least not yet.”
He smirked. “Each of us is in a precarious position, Leta, but I have a grand fleet at my back, while you have...” He looked over her shoulder, as if someone might be there, and then shrugged. “There are people in this court who would rather let the Line of Benisor fall than allow a woman atop the throne. The lack of an heir breeds uncertainty, and uncertainty causes people to make rash decisions. Your brother’s death has awakened the ambition of a hundred households. Many men would happily kill to have a chance to sit upon the Throne of Roses, and more than a few of these men can trace their lineage back to House Benisor, no matter how crooked and branching that path may be. I promised your brother I would look after you. It seems fortunate that you have come to me now — perhaps the Weaver is sending us a message.”
“I will not fear the future anymore than I do the present. Praetor Maxentius, Lady Miren, Herald Cenna, even General Saterius, they have all demonstrated absolute lo
yalty to my household.”
“Do you truly believe that, Leta, or do you confuse loyalty with the polite words they whisper in your ear? Lady Miren’s own son burned Estri to the ground. Tell me, how did that serve your household?”
“How do you know this?”
“I’m a rebel, remember?” said Ferrus bluntly. “Lord Fennir’s men went from estate to estate like a band of assassins. The houses of Mannus, Atius, Proxis, they are all gone, dead and buried beneath the rubble of that city. Why, I ask you? Was it to crush the rebellion? No, those men took no part in our plot. So why? Lord Fennir burned Estri because you can get away with terrible things during a time of war. Horrors are visited upon so many households it becomes difficult to gauge which were targeted and which were simply casualties of war. And if House Benisor has a few less allies to bolster its claim to the throne when the war draws to a close, who will notice? Thus, the noose grows tighter.” He made a wrenching motion with his hand. “Who do you think it was that received those lands as recompense for their service?”
Leta didn’t need to hear the answer. The fate of House Proxis was well known to her, as it was the household of her late husband. Her father-in-law, sister-in-law, three nieces, and two nephews all died in the rebellion. With no living heir, the lands of House Proxis defaulted to the Throne of Roses. As to House Mannus and House Atius, Leta had sat in her father’s court and watched as their ancestral lands were divvied up between General Saterius and Lady Miren, a kingly reward for their service to the throne.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you are surrounded by cold and calculated people who are willing to bide their time and wait. But they won’t wait forever. They have stacked the deck, and when your father dies things will move swiftly.”
The Wayward Prince Page 4