The Wayward Prince

by Lee H. Haywood

  Leta struggled to keep her rage from showing. She hadn’t been clever by tracking the club-footed rebel to Admiral Ferrus’s ship — it had all been a trap. Lady Miren wanted to make her complicit in Admiral Ferrus’s treason.

  “There is more, priestess,” continued Ionni. “When you ordered me to lock the monastery door the other day, I instructed one of the sisters standing outside to go fetch General Saterius.”

  “Why?” demanded Leta, feeling truly shocked.

  Ionni kicked at the ground, unable to make eye contact. “I don’t want to stay in Mayal and be a Vacian Acolyte, and I certainly don’t want to spend another day living in the house of that mad woman. I just want to go home. I thought if I was honest with Lady Miren and did everything she asked, she would see that I’m not a traitor.”

  “But you are a traitor, Ionni.”

  Ionni gave Leta a sly smirk. “I am ever the loyal servant to the Throne of Roses.”

  “Indeed you are. But your game of double-crossing turned deadly.”

  Ionni’s eyes shied away. “Lady Miren told me to send for General Saterius if you acted peculiar around the afflicted patients. I didn’t know they would kill the man. I feel sick. I haven’t been able to sleep.”

  “Good,” said Leta. “Let the guilt gnaw at your stomach. A double-crosser ought to feel the consequences of their betrayal.” Leta meant for the words to sting, but they came out even harsher than she intended.

  Ionni sniffed, and tears began to well in her eyes. “I made a mistake, Priestess Leta. I’m sorry.”

  Suddenly Leta saw Ionni for what she was — a scared child. Leta reached out and hugged Ionni to her chest. Leta had put an adult’s burden on a child; no wonder she was buckling under the pressure. “I shouldn’t have asked any of this from you. It was wrong for me to get you involved.”

  “You didn’t.” Ionni pulled away from Leta’s embrace. She placed one hand over her mouth and a second over her eyes. Leta had seen that gesture before — it was the rebel salute. “I inherited this cause from my father. Lady Miren wants every last heretic to pay, but most of all, she wants to bring the leader of the rebellion to justice.”

  “Admiral Ferrus?”

  “Your brother, Priestess. Lady Miren wants Prince Meriatis’s head atop a pike. She believes you know where the prince is hiding.”

  “Ha!” Leta couldn’t help but laugh at the cruelty of the notion. “I know precisely where Meriatis is hiding. He’s in the family vault beneath the Court of Bariil. I had to beg my father to have Meriatis buried alongside his ancestors. Does Miren wish to open his crypt and cut off his head?”

  “Have you actually seen your brother’s body?”

  Leta had, although she tried hard to suppress the memory. Meriatis had been caught in the fire that broke out at Imel Katan toward the end of the siege. Leta could hardly recognize her brother. His face had become a black mask of seared flesh. Sickeningly, it reminded her of a spitted pig left over a fire for too long. Leta hadn’t been able to bear the sight of her brother’s ruined visage for more than a few seconds.

  “War can be cruel to a body,” Leta said finally, “I saw what was left of my brother.” But even as she said this, doubt entered her mind.

  “I intend to make this up to you,” said Ionni. “That is why I came here to confess.”

  “No, Ionni, you’re finished with all of this. I’m going to petition my father to have you sent home.”

  “You don’t get to decide that,” said Ionni, her face stiffening with resolve. “I helped get a man killed. I have to bear that weight on my conscience, not you. I won’t be responsible for anyone else’s death. Now, stop acting like a worried mother and have a look at this.” She lifted the hem of her dress, revealing a dark green stain.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You will,” said Ionni. “A fresh batch of patients came in yesterday. One of them spit on me.”

  “His spit was green?” Leta inspected the splotch closer, giving it a sniff. The faint scent of engroot struck her nostrils. “He’s been poisoned. The man has a clean soul!”

  “There’s at least one patient that I’m sure about, but there might be others. When he arrived, he was completely incoherent. But as the day wore on, he began to sober up. He started to ramble on about his innocence. Then, come this morning, he was once again out of his mind.”

  “You think someone from the monastery gave the man another dose of poison last night.”

  Ionni nodded. “At the night time feeding, I’d imagine. There are only a couple of sisters it could be.”

  One name in particular stood out in Leta’s head. She wouldn’t betray me. Would she?

  “I went through Sister Beli’s footlocker,” continued Ionni, seeming to read Leta’s mind. She reached into her pocket and produced a small vial containing a green fluid. “Engroot tonic. A drop or two will loosen your tongue. An entire vial will make you stark raving mad.” Ionni gave the vial a little shake, causing it to slosh back and forth.

  Leta felt ill. Sister Beli had served as Leta’s assistant ever since Leta became the head of the Vacian Order. They’d been friends for years. “The gods help me. Why would Sister Beli serve Lady Miren? To harm others is a betrayal of her vows; it’s a betrayal of everything the sisterhood stands for.”

  “It’s not a betrayal if Sister Beli believes she is serving a directive from the gods. Disobeying the orders of a gray prophet is not advisable.

  Leta’s eyes flared wide. “How did you know about the gray prophet?”

  “I know a great many things that a child should not know. Living through war has a tendency to do that.”

  “This patient, is he still in the monastery?”

  “Yes, although I can’t say for how long. I think Sister Beli intends to perform the final sacrament this morning.”

  “Then there isn’t much time.” Leta’s mind raced as she quickly formulated a plan. “Can I trust you, Ionni? Truly and without reservation?”

  “Yes, priestess.”

  “I need you to go to Lady Miren and tell her I’m trying to interrupt the execution.”

  Ionni’s eyebrows raised circumspectly. “She will not be pleased.”

  “Good. That is my intent. But before you inform her of my interference, I want you to serve Lady Miren her morning tea.”

  • • •

  Leta rushed across the courtyard. Herald Cenna was precisely where she expected to find him. He was droning on about Merridian history while his students fell asleep on the steps of the Court of Bariil. Trevis, Herald Cenna’s leech boy, sat bowlegged on the steps with each of his legs encased in a plaster cast. Leta could only shake her head at the unfortunate child’s condition as she approached the gathering.

  “Get up, you droning fool,” said Leta, as she hooked an arm through each of Cenna’s armpits, and lifted him to his feet.

  “What... eh... Priestess Leta, what a surprise!” He motioned to the children. “Say good morning to the priestess.”

  “Good morning, Priestess Leta,” called a chorus of high-pitched voices.

  “Class is over, children. Go enjoy the rest of the day!” said Leta, as she began to drag Herald Cenna across the plaza. “This way, please.”

  Trevis remained seated on the steps, staring slack-jawed as Leta led Herald Cenna away. With his legs bound in plaster casts he had no way to follow. “Herald Cenna, what do you want me to do?”

  “Just wait there,” said Leta, answering for the herald. “We’ll be back shortly.”

  Cenna hopped and shuffled alongside Leta, struggling to match her pace. “Would you be so kind as to explain yourself?”

  “I have my proof.”

  “Proof? Proof of what?”

  “Poison. Treachery. Conspiracy. Come, there isn’t much time.”

  Herald Cenna squinted at her incredulously, but allowed himself be led onward. The Vacian monastery wasn’t far, but Cenna was dreadfully slow, and by the time she pulled him into the inner ward the p
atients were already gone.

  “No!” screamed Leta, unable to control her anguish. She held up her hands in despair, motioning toward the heavens. “Gods, can I do no good in this world?”

  Cenna looked about the monastery, genuinely puzzled. “Leta, if you dragged me away from my students to show me an empty ward, I won’t be pleased.”

  Shlick. A low noise issued from beyond the door of the adjoining courtyard. That would be Sir Rupert sharpening his ax.

  “By Vacia, there’s still time!” Leta grabbed hold of Cenna’s hand, and dragged him out the door. “Come on, you oaf, move your feet!”

  Cenna grabbed his skullcap, as if such brisk movement might dislodge it from his head.

  They entered the courtyard just as Sir Rupert was lifting his ax to execute the first Blackheart victim. The doomed man lay flat on a chopping block with his neck and head hanging over the edge. A blood-stained basket was placed in front of the block. Sir Rupert’s assistant was grinding the heel of his boot into the man’s back, struggling to hold him in place. Four other patients were still strapped to their beds. Sister Beli and a group of sisters were standing far back to avoid being struck by stray droplets of blood.

  “Sir Rupert, Halt!” commanded Leta. “Put down the blade, and step away!”

  Sir Rupert paused with his ax pointed up toward the heavens. For a moment he looked queerly between Leta and Sister Beli, trying to decide who was in charge. Finally he lowered his ax and shrugged. “Ain’t my place to sort this out.”

  Sister Beli spun around on the balls of her feet. Her face a mixture of surprise and agitation. “Priestess Leta, we were just finishing up here. I know how you don’t like the sight of blood. If you wouldn’t mind waiting in the inner ward...”

  “I do mind,” snapped Leta. She stormed across the courtyard, her shoes clacking angrily against the flagstone.

  A Vacian Sister who Leta had never gotten along with pointed a self-righteous finger in Leta’s direction. “You’re not supposed to be here, priestess.”

  “We have very specific instructions,” said Beli, her voice still calm. “High Lord Valerius himself has forbidden your presence, and while you are the master of my sisterhood, he is the master of my faith. His word supplants your own.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to have mixed allegiances,” said Leta snidely. “Step aside. This will be quick.” She pushed Sir Rupert out of her way and knelt next to the Blackheart victim bent over the chopping block.

  “Be mindful, priestess,” said Rupert. “This man is dangerous.” The patient began to squirm and almost broke free of the assistant’s hold.

  Leta placed her hand against the patient’s cheek. “Be calm. I’m not going to hurt you.” The man lifted his head, and upon seeing Leta, he blinked in confusion. He ceased to struggle, at least momentarily.

  “What are you trying to prove?” asked Cenna, still standing by the door. His armed were crossed before his chest in a disapproving manner.

  “Just observe,” said Leta. She lifted the patient’s head away from the wooden slab. His eyes lolled in their sockets, unable to focus on anything for long, and his tongue hung from his mouth.

  Leta spoke in the loudest voice she could muster. “He is not your maker, but your master all the same!”

  A chorus of disapproval sounded from the collection of Vacian Sister. Herald Cenna crossed himself, clearly disturbed. Beli stared at Leta as if she had gone completely mad. Sir Rupert cocked his head sideways, his face a mixture of puzzlement and interest.

  There was a low croak from the back of the courtyard, the sound of a dry throat struggling to conjure up words. “You will face him in time, and all will be brought to shame,” answered a raspy voice out of compulsion.

  Leta stood upright, marking the speaker. “There, the second victim from the left!” exclaimed Leta, pointing with excitement. The rest of the victims remained silent, including the man bent over the execution block.

  Sir Rupert gave a low whistle, seeming to gather her point.

  “There’s my proof,” said Leta, stamping her foot. “It’s as clear a symptom as blanching skin, darkening irises, or an inclination toward violence. Those in the late stages of the affliction can’t help but recite that dreadful passage from the Requiem of Cataclysms.”

  “I don’t know,” managed Herald Cenna. His eyes passed circumspectly over the other four supposed Blackheart victims that had remained silent.

  “What don’t you know, herald?” called a harsh voice. Lady Miren was standing in the courtyard portal wagging her finger with disapproval. Ionni stood beside Lady Miren doing her best impression of an innocent young girl. “These Blackhearted fools are a threat to the good people of Merridia! Why have you interrupted the work of the gods?”

  “Not my gods,” said Leta angrily. “The gods I worship would never allow the execution of clean souls.”

  Miren rested her hands on her hips and scowled. “What has gotten into you, Leta? Do you feel all right? Have you been hearing voices, feeling strong impulses? My dear, I’m worried about you. I have been praying to Tiberius to watch over your soul, but I fear my prayers have gone unanswered.”

  “You will face him in time, and all will be brought to shame!” continued the lone Blackheart victim, ignorantly unaware of the battle of wills playing out before him.

  “Ask Tiberius to watch over your own soul instead,” snapped Leta. She felt rather foolish saying something so snide, but it was the only rebuttal she could think of at the time, she was far too excited. She had Miren precisely where she wanted her.

  “He will smother the land with brimstone and spoil!” continued the afflicted patient, still reciting the dreadful passage from the Requiem of Cataclysms. Several of the patients began to weep.

  Miren’s face hardened as she took in the chaotic scene. “High Lord Valerius asked me to keep an eye on you, and I am glad I did. You have delayed the inevitable, giving these dark souls hope. It’s inhumane.” She stormed across the courtyard, heading straight for the chopping block. “Let’s get things moving. Sir Rupert, hand me your ax.” When Sir Rupert balked at the request, Lady Miren tried to yank the ax out of his hands.

  “Lady Miren, I think this is, uh, unwise,” said Sister Beli.

  “Mind your own damn business!” snapped Miren, struggling to gain control of the ax. “Let go of the ax. That’s an order, you baseborn fool!” Her voice was growing more frantic with each passing second. The dwarven knight outweighed the slight old woman by a dozen stones, and there was no chance in the world she was going to win this test of strength, yet still she hung on to the handle. “These wretches have to die. They deserve to die. Let go you dwarven bastard. Let go! Let go! Let go!”

  Sir Rupert did not let go. The Vacian Sisters collectively gasped with dismay. Even Sister Beli appeared taken aback. Leta smirked. There was a madness in Lady Miren’s behavior that was unmistakable. No one in attendance could argue that Lady Miren was currently of a sound mind.

  Ionni shot Leta the tiniest of smiles and turned the palm of her hand so only Leta could see what she was holding. The vial of Engroot tonic lay in her palm. The vial was half empty. Leta’s eyes flared wide. Leta had instructed the girl to put a few droplets into Lady Miren’s morning tea. Instead, Ionni had given her a near lethal dose. It would only be a matter of time before Miren was as incoherent as the patients lying strapped to the table.

  “Give me the ax, or I’ll have you dragged before my tribunal for treason!” The agitation in Lady Miren’s voice was gone, replaced by pure rage.

  A disapproving growl resonated from Cenna’s throat. “Take these patients back to the inner ward,” ordered the herald. He gestured to a pair of sisters. “You two are personally responsible for these patients’ well being. See that they are comfortable. A single scuff or scrape, and by the gods, I’ll see that you answer for it.” It was like a lever had been pulled, and he was suddenly the old firebrand Leta remembered from her youth. He motioned to Lady Miren. “We need
to speak in private, all three of us.” He nodded to Leta, including her in that number.

  Lady Miren released the handle of the ax and spun around to face Herald Cenna. “I will come and speak with you when I am good and ready,” said Miren with unrestrained indignation. Her pupils had grown unusually dilated. Her brow was slick with sweat.

  “You will come now, and of your own freewill, or I will have Sir Rupert drag you to my chambers. Either way works for me.”

  Sir Rupert locked his hand on Lady Miren’s shoulder to show that he was more than willing to fulfill Herald Cenna’s request.

  Lady Miren glared daggers in Herald Cenna’s direction. “If you or this thing so much as...”

  “Don’t threaten me, woman. I am the Herald of the Tiber Order while you are but a lowly lordess. A lordess who is currently acting like a lunatic, I might add. You will do as you are told. One foot in front of the other, there’s a good girl. Let’s go!”

  CHAPTER

  XI

  A JOURNEY’S ENDING

  Singed leaves swirled around Emethius, carried by the wind. The charred and fragmented husks of collapsed trees littered the forest floor. The few trees in Emethius’s vicinity that were still standing had lost all their leaves. Their naked limbs filtered the rays of the sun, creating a dancing collage of shadows. It took a moment for Emethius’s clouded mind to place his location.

  I’m on the border of the Great Northern Ador and the Cultrator, he vaguely recalled.

  He must have passed out from his injuries, because the sun was now directly overhead. How much time has passed? Two hours? Maybe three? He couldn’t be certain. The top of his head ached so badly he couldn’t think straight.

  Emethius gingerly ran his hand along his head, finding that a portion of his scalp had been sheared off. Pine needles and dirt were plastered to the side of his face, intermixed with dried blood. It hurt to lift his arm, and when he did, the laceration in his chest reopened. He inspected the shallow cut that ran from his collarbone to his nipple. It was half clogged with dirt and would likely get infected if not properly cleaned.