The Wayward Prince

by Lee H. Haywood

  “I didn’t embarrass myself,” muttered Leta under her breath.

  She considered charging the door, but she knew Sir Rupert wouldn’t step aside, and if he had to use force to restrain her, he would. Feeling defeated, Leta flopped back into her chair, folded her arms across her chest, and glared angrily at the knight.

  “It won’t be much longer, priestess. I assure you,” said Sir Rupert, fidgeting with discomfort.

  Just before noon, there came a soft knock on the door and High Lord Valerius entered the parlor. He exchanged a few quiet words with Sir Rupert, then the knight departed, leaving Leta alone with her father. Valerius’s eyes narrowed with anger the moment the door clacked shut.

  Her father had not lived an easy life, and each day the follies of his past failings seemed to drag his shoulders nearer to the ground. He was the high lord of a faith being splintered apart by the ravages of the Blackheart. He had sat upon the Throne of Roses and done nothing as his own son took up arms against him. His authority was decreasing by the day, and his one lasting legacy might be the collapse of the Benisor line. And I am his spoiled daughter, who brings him nothing but hardship, thought Leta, feeling a degree of guilt.

  Valerius sat across from her in the chair nearest to the hearth. His whole face glowed red, at one moment appearing a mask of rage, and the next just terribly sad. “What were you thinking, trying to free that man?” Her father chewed at his lip, as he often did when he was furious.

  I will not quail, thought Leta, I am the priestess of Vacia. I am the sole heir to the throne. She straightened her back and held her head high, doing her best to stand up to her father’s judging eyes. “He was innocent, Father. I wasn’t about to send a clean soul to the headsman. It’s not compassion. It’s murder. It’s a sin.”

  The creases about her father’s lips furrowed and smoothed, furrowed and smoothed. Valerius was maintaining his temper, but it was plain to see that restraint was a chore. “How do you know he was clean of the Blackheart’s taint?”

  What was she to do, admit that she had walked down to Admiral Ferrus’s ship, the supposed center of the rebellion, and had a drink with the man while they merrily discussed treason? She found herself staring at the floor, despite her effort to be brave. “I can’t tell you precisely how I know, only that it is the truth.”

  “Tiberius, give me strength.” Valerius raised his hands in frustration and lifted his eyes toward the heavens. “I clearly can’t trust you not to do something foolish. You’re forbidden from going anywhere near the afflicted until further notice.”

  “How dare you give me such an order?” snapped Leta. “I am the Priestess of Vacia. I am not some child you can punish and send to their room. I’m a woman grown and the master of one of the five holy orders.”

  “You are the master of an order that is subservient to my command,” replied Valerius hotly, his voice thundering off the vaulted ceiling. “What part of this don’t you understand? You are my only living heir. Everything you do is watched and questioned. You clearly can’t control yourself, so I must deny you the opportunity and temptation. If you do something this stupid again...”

  “It wasn’t stupid,” muttered Leta. She couldn’t get the image of Hern out of her mind. Even now she envisioned him gulping down his last breath as he wallowed in a puddle of his own blood.

  Leta breathed deep, struggling to regain a degree of composure. “This is Lady Miren’s doing. She has gone mad with vengeance. Exile her to Chansel. Let her chase ghosts up north. She is running a secret tribunal...”

  Valerius cut Leta’s words short with a wave of his hand. “I know all of your theories. Herald Cenna told me everything.”

  “Then do something!”

  Valerius stared into the fire and sighed. “I am so very weary, Leta. Is Lady Miren killing innocent people? I don’t know. Sometimes I fear a little bit of the Blackheart has crept into all of our souls. When I sat upon the Throne of Roses as a young man I would receive splendid visions of Calaban’s divine plan. I always knew when to sow the fields. I could see storm clouds gathering beyond the horizon and keep the fleet at anchor. I knew when winter would be long and summer too short. I could even see the faces of men who would act against our house. Assassins, spies, turncoats. The Weaver’s web was graciously laid bare. But as I got older I started to see images that haunt me still.” He lifted his head, and his eyes were suddenly wet with tears. “I saw your brother’s face.”

  “You knew he was going to betray you?”

  “I could never be certain,” snapped Valerius, refusing to accept any blame. “I saw images out of context. Meriatis seated atop the Throne of Roses. A fleet of ships sailing upon a sea of blood. An iron tower, indomitably tall and wreathed in flame. Doubt filled my mind, but I needed proof. Your brother was no fool, and he hid his tracks well. Not even my most apt spies could find anything against him.”

  Leta was not surprised. In the months leading up to the rebellion, Meriatis seemed as jovial and content as ever. Then one night in late winter, while Leta was out taking an evening stroll with Sister Beli, she caught sight of Meriatis walking toward the Court of Bariil with several dozen men in his company. Leta had never seen her brother so fiercely attired.

  Meriatis wore steel from head to foot; a helm, blooming with dyed horsehair, a breastplate embossed with the red rose of House Benisor, and most importantly a blue-gray broadsword that was honed to a terrible edge. His greaves ran red with blood, and the hem of his green cape was sodden. His eyes seemed to be on fire.

  “Go back to your room and lock your door!” commanded Meriatis. There was a sternness in his voice that Leta had never heard before. “Come out for no one until I return for you.”

  “What is happening?” Leta screamed, too foolish at the time to piece everything together. “Are we being attacked? Is father safe?”

  Meriatis’s reply was cold and aloof. “There are rebels in our mix. I’m going to the Court of Bariil to make sure father is secure.” It was the last time she saw her brother alive. His words still haunted her.

  Meriatis ordered three of his most faithful companions, Lord Lorans, Lord Lumkell, and Sir Ruvon, to guard her in her apartment. Lorans and Lumkell were the sons of minor lords and childhood friends of her brother. Sir Ruvon, a Knight of Niselus, was Meriatis’s master-at-arms.

  Leta had only the slightest inkling of fear when she retired to her quarters, thinking that this incident was just a false alarm. If there really was a problem, her quarters were like a small fortress, and could easily be defended. She lived in the old keep, which was only accessible by ascending a long exposed staircase, and then walking along a narrow rampart with a deathly drop on either side. While Meriatis’s three companions secured the apartment, Leta and Sister Beli rushed to the balcony to see what was happening.

  “I can’t tell friend from foe,” said Sister Beli as she leaned out over the railing to watch the slaughter in the courtyard. There would be a few minutes of intense fighting, and then silence for an hour or more, only for the fighting to resume when one group or another was flushed out into the open. Terrible screams and the clangor of steel became the music of the evening. Around midnight Weaver’s Hall was dancing with flames. The fire was only extinguished after the temple’s stone walls collapsed inward in a cloud of cinders and soot.

  The rising of the sun was answered by the boom of a battering ram breaking down the palace gate. The hinges failed first, and the doors were wrenched from their moorings and sent clattering to the ground. Hundreds of men flooded into the compound, their steel mail glistening yellow and orange from the glare of the morning light. Swords were raised, spears poised, banners beat lithely in the wind. She spotted Praetor Maxentius mounted atop his stallion leading the charge.

  “This is the end, then,” said Lord Lumkell sadly. He drew his sword, and his companions followed suit.

  “But Praetor Maxentius is a servant to our house,” said Leta, still not comprehending who the true enemy was.

/>   “No, my lady. He betrayed your brother.”

  “Maxentius is the rebel?”

  The men looked at their feet in mute response.

  Lord Lorans and Sir Ruvon positioned themselves at the top of the stairwell, awaiting the inevitable press by Maxentius’s men, while Lord Lumkell guarded the door to Leta’s chamber. Sister Beli lit a candle to Vacia and knelt beside Leta. Hand in hand the two silently prayed.

  The twang of steel announced the arrival of Praetor Maxentius’s men. Lord Lorans was struck lame by an ax blow to the forearm. He came back into Leta’s chamber with his gauntlet bent grotesquely and blood gushing through the cracks of the lobstered steel. “I’m sorry, priestess. I have failed you and your brother.”

  Sir Ruvon fought so fiercely Maxentius’s men had no choice but to kill him. The dwarf died at the top of the stairs, having sent eight men to the afterlife before an archer managed to aim an arrow through the eye slit of his helm.

  When Lord Lumkell saw Sir Ruvon die, he sued for peace. He was dragged away for questioning and Leta never saw him again. Lord Lorans threw himself on his own sword rather than be taken captive.

  Praetor Maxentius personally escorted Leta from her apartment, guiding her gently by her arm. Leta was petrified, falsely believing that Maxentius was the rebel and that she had just been taken captive. The ramparts were crawling with Maxentius’s men, and the snarling lion standard of House Leonius fluttered above the gatehouse. She knew her brother would never rest as long as she was held captive, but what could he do against so great a host?

  Leta began to cry, but through her tears she spied a familiar face being tended to by a Tiber Brother. It was Emethius, and she knew in her heart he would never betray her family.

  Leta threw off Maxentius’s grasp, and ran to Emethius, wrapping her arms around his shoulders in a sobbing embrace. “What is happening, Emethius?” she cried into his ear.

  When she withdrew, she found Emethius’s eyes were wreathed with pain. “Your father’s been taken, priestess.” Emethius choked, hardly able to manage the words. “Herald Carrick is leading the revolt. The heretics have fled north toward Estri.”

  “Estri? Herald Carrick?” Leta did not believe her ears. “What of my brother?”

  Emethius could not answer. His eyes strayed earthward.

  “Taken as well, priestess,” answered Maxentius, his voice oddly sedate. He came to her side and led her away before she and Emethius could discuss the matter further. “This is a treacherous day. I vow the rebels will pay for this heresy in blood.”

  Only in hindsight did Leta see the true genius of Praetor Maxentius’s deception. Had word gotten out that Meriatis was the true leader of the rebellion, people would have flocked to the rebel banner from every reach of the globe. Meriatis was the most beloved person in all of Merridia, while High Lord Valerius was an elderly man. It would not be the first time a son had pushed aside a father who had ruled past his prime. The rebellion would have been a success, the dire results of Meriatis’s census would have been exposed to the world, and it would now be Meriatis sitting upon the Throne of Roses trying to find a way to end the scourges of the Blackheart.

  And what would have happened to my father? Leta tried to shake the disquieting thought from her head. If Meriatis truly planned to challenge the gods and overthrow a thousand years of doctrine, could he really have let someone like their father, a stalwart of the old ideology, remain alive to speak out in opposition of his aims?

  Probably not, Leta concluded. It was either my father or brother. One of them had to die. Looking at her father now, hunched over his chair with his face curled in a grimace, Leta was not certain the correct Benisor had survived.

  “I ignored the message from the gods,” said Valerius sadly. “I allowed Meriatis’s folly to grow until it was too late. Now the future has grown silent to me. I will not sit upon the throne again.”

  Leta was aghast. “You haven’t sat upon the Throne of Roses since the start of the rebellion?”

  Valerius shook his head. “In the end, all the gods showed me was fire and death. After everything that has happened, I haven’t the strength to face their judgment and scorn. I haven’t the strength to see the world as it truly is. To sit upon the Throne of Roses is to sit naked before the gods. There is nothing you can hide, nothing that you can keep for yourself. They see everything, Leta. Your strengths, your weaknesses. Imagine every insecurity laid bare, every sin exposed. Every lustful thought mocked, every selfish motive questioned. What’s more, there are truths no man would ever want to know. The kind of truths that will cause a man to go insane. I can’t bear it, not after everything I’ve lost. I can’t stand to know that there is still more they can take from me. Your brother...”

  “Don’t blame this on Meriatis,” snapped Leta, unable to contain her anger any longer. “What you’ve done is a dereliction of duty. The people of Merridia count on you to be the Prophet of Calaban, the Tongue of Tiberius. All of those lectures... all of those sermons...”

  “My own words.”

  Leta looked at her father in dismay. We have been led astray. “The gods will judge you, Father. They will judge all of us!”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” said Valerius. “The gods can be vengeful, Leta. You of all people should know this, mother of a dead child, wife of a murdered husband, sister of a slain brother. The gods have granted you a difficult fate to test your faith. Don’t fall short of the challenge.”

  “I don’t intend to.” A disconcerting thought suddenly entered Leta’s head. “You don’t actually know if the results of Meriatis’s census were false, do you?”

  Valerius’s eyes narrowed. “Who have you been talking to?”

  Leta shook her head with disgust. “The affliction is getting worse. You know it. Herald Cenna knows it. Damn near every citizen of Merridia knows it. But that’s just hearsay, and can easily be dismissed. But you couldn’t refute the numbers from Meriatis’s census, could you? So you labeled him a liar and proclaimed him afflicted with the Blackheart. You gave Meriatis no choice but to rebel.”

  “The Blackheart is getting worse, yes, but that is only because the land is mired in sin. The affliction is Calaban’s way of sorting the sinners from the saints. It creeps through the land, pulling the sinful into oblivion. Rich and poor, highborn and low, young and old. The Blackheart is justice. If the Calabanesi intend to use the affliction to wipe every last sinner off the face of this earth, then so be it. May Calaban’s will be fulfilled.” There was a flicker of madness in his eyes that Leta had never seen before.

  “Is that what your throne told you?” hissed Leta. “Did Tiberius come and whisper those wretched words in your ear, Father?” Leta stamped her foot and the shade of madness slipped from her father’s face, replaced by shame and exhaustion. “No, I thought not, because you’re too much of a coward to sit upon the throne. The Blackheart is a plague. The sooner we call it what it is, the sooner we can stop it. We can start by clearing the weeds from this house. Lady Miren’s tribunals must come to an end, and a new census must be conducted to verify Meriatis’s results.”

  “I can’t permit either of those things, Leta. I’m no king. I reign at the stead of the gods, and I fear their confidence in me has run its course.”

  No, her father was no king. Just an old man who had passed his prime. Meriatis was right. “How did the gods ever have faith in such a coward?” The words hissed from Leta’s mouth full of venom.

  To Leta’s surprise, her father didn’t rise with anger, or lash out with words full of rage. Instead, his shoulders slumped forward and he looked down at the floor. “I am not the only prophet walking the halls of this court,” he whispered.

  Leta couldn’t contain her gasp. “Then it’s true — there is a Gray Prophet!”

  Valerius nodded weakly. “Rumors of the Gray Prophet’s meddling first reached my ears shortly before the rebellion. It makes sense, really. I would not heed Calaban’s warning, so they sent a Gray Prophet to Mayal to
guarantee that their will was fulfilled.”

  “You don’t know who it is?”

  “I have my suspicions, but no proof. Gray Prophets have never worked out in the open. They tinker in the background, whispering into the ears of the influential and stoking the flames of public sentiment. I believe the lynch mobs that roamed the streets of Mayal last winter were the work of this Gray Prophet. There are many amongst the upper nobility who are no longer walking in lockstep with the throne. That leads me to believe this Gray Prophet is someone of significance, the patriarch of one of the great houses most likely. That narrows it to only a few people.”

  Her father’s inability to envision a woman as a prophet was blinding him from the obvious truth; Lady Miren was the Gray Prophet.

  This explained her aunt’s self-righteous vindication — Miren was convinced she was doing the work of the gods because she actually was. Leta didn’t know if she should laugh or cry as she pondered the implications of this new information.

  Lady Miren was trying to crush a truth the gods meant to keep hidden, a truth the census had uncovered, a truth Meriatis had tried to reveal to the world. To act against Lady Miren was to act against the gods. That would make Leta a heretic, no different than the men who had conspired to usurp her father’s throne. But perhaps a bit more heresy was necessary to save Merridia from the ravages of the Blackheart. Someone had to stand up to the gods and demand a cure. And that person is me, Leta realized with stark certainty.

  Leta stared her father dead in the eyes. “For the stability of Merridia, it’s time for you to declare me your heir.”

  Valerius blinked with surprise. “I have discussed the prospect of you inheriting the throne with many influential people. Some have laughed, some have been resolute in their objection, and some have even accused me of growing senile. Little Orso is the obvious candidate, is the response I hear most often. Little Orso is the one chosen by the gods.” Valerius frowned. “I agree its time to declare an heir, but I fear that person is not you, my dear.”