The Wayward Prince

by Lee H. Haywood

  “Maybe I’ll look into you next, Leta,” continued Miren maniacally. “A wolf tells me you’ve been meeting with Admiral Ferrus. Worse still, you’ve been reciting passages from the Requiem of Cataclysms in a holy temple. There were quite a few witnesses to that sacrilege. It would be a shame if the Blackheart poisoned two members of your household, but it wouldn’t surprise me; the affliction runs wild in corrupt blood.”

  “You dare threaten the priestess?”

  “Be quiet, Cenna. I’ll get to you next. Don’t think I can’t replace you. You helped raise Meriatis, after all, and you served as Herald Carrick’s second for years. I’m certain...”

  In her boisterous rant, Miren failed to notice Leta had taken Herald Cenna’s Tremelese dagger from the mantel. But the hiss of steel drawing from a sheath cut the words off in Miren’s throat. Her eyes flared with shock, and a sudden sobriety returned to her face.

  “Priestess Leta, what are you doing?” asked Ionni, blinking in wonder.

  Leta pointed the dagger at her aunt. “You’re a murderer, Miren, plain and simple. But you’ve managed to wear your disguise so well no one could see it until now.” Leta was surprised by how level and cool her voice sounded. She approached her aunt, certain of what had to be done.

  “S-s-stay away from me,” croaked Miren, her boldness slipping away in an instant. She raised her hands protectively before herself.

  Leta didn’t stop. Step after step she drew closer. Miren seemed to be frozen in disbelief, with her legs backed up against Herald Cenna’s desk; she couldn’t retreat any farther. “Put down that knife, you foolish child.” The words tumbled out in a panic; she was quivering with genuine fear. “Stay away. Herald Cenna, do something!”

  Cenna templed his fingers over his stomach and leaned back in his chair, his face curling with intrigue over what might happen next.

  Leta drew within inches of Miren’s shaking frame and pressed the tip of the blade to her bosom. The Tremelese steel would only need the slightest thrust, the honed edge would plunge greedily through fabric, skin, and bone as it sought out the rotten heart in Miren’s chest. Leta wanted to see the fear in Miren’s eyes, she wanted to see the same resignation that haunted the faces of the rebels that Miren sent to the headsman.

  “I ought to kill you. Merridia would be better for it,” said Leta with a sad shake of her head. “If I intend to inherit the Throne of Roses, it would appear that I need to become a killer. Did you make it that way? Did Meriatis? Or have rulers always waded through a river of blood to claim that which is rightfully theirs?” She envisioned Meriatis on the day of the rebellion, his cape and greaves sodden with loyalist blood.

  “Killing is never the easy part,” said Miren huskily. “But revenge makes it oh-so-palatable.” Leta let the tip of the blade sag. Miren’s shoulders slackened and a flicker of hope reentered her eyes. She mistakenly thought her trial was over. Leta crushed Miren’s hope.

  “This is my revenge for the men you killed,” hissed Leta.

  As quick as a striking viper, Leta stabbed down with the dagger, certain she would stall and not do what was necessary if she paused for another moment. Lady Miren screamed. Herald Cenna and Ionni gasped. There was a hot flashing pain in Leta’s left arm just beneath her elbow, like someone had plunged a red hot brand through her flesh. For a second, all Leta could do was stare in wonder at the Tremelese blade that was suddenly protruding through either side of her forearm. The dark blue-gray steel stood in stark juxtaposition to the porcelain lightning streaks that covered Leta’s arm. At first, only a thin bloody outline wreathed the blade where it punctured her skin. Then the trickle became a torrent, and from elbow to fingertips her arm became awash in red.

  Miren was bewildered beyond words.

  Leta took her bloody hand and ran it straight down Miren’s body, casting her nose and lips, chest and stomach with a streak of red. The mark of a killer.

  Miren shrieked in absolute horror.

  “Revenge hurts,” muttered Leta almost to herself.

  She could hear people bursting into the room behind her, drawn by Miren’s guttural cry. Leta fought every instinct to turn and see who was there; she was putting on a show, after all, and she needed her best performance if she hoped to impress the audience. Leta collapsed to her knees and grasped Miren’s ankles.

  Now Ionni, now is your cue.

  “By the gods, someone help us!” screamed Ionni, making sure her voice could be heard by the gathering throng of onlookers. “Lady Miren stabbed the priestess! Murderer! Murderer!”

  “It’s the Blackheart, isn’t it,” managed Leta in a faltering voice as she grabbed at her forearm. “She has been acting like a madwoman!”

  “I’ve never seen a more sudden onset of the Blackheart in my life,” said Herald Cenna from somewhere behind her. “Pure madness. It’s my fault. I should have noticed the symptoms. The tribunals, the sense of betrayal, the anger. And now violence against our priestess. I’ve condemned people to the headsman for less.”

  “Liars all of you,” screamed Lady Miren. “Leta stabbed herself. Look at her! She stabbed herself!” The absurdity of the claim made Miren sound all the more insane.

  From the numerous gasps Leta heard, she imagined quite a crowd had gathered for the show. She held up her injured arm so that all could see. Blood ran in rivulets from her elbow and fingertips, splattering across her thighs and pooling on the ground. So much blood. I might have miscalculated. Leta suddenly felt lightheaded. The world began to spin.

  Ionni rushed forward and caught Leta in her arms as she tumbled over. Leta’s eyes briefly lolled toward the door. Sister Beli stood half blocking the doorway, but there were others there as well, Vacian Sisters, Tiber Brothers, and many more. Each bore witness to the scene, Lady Miren covered in blood and raving like a madwoman, while Leta, the victim of the assault, lay in a growing puddle of blood.

  Leta smirked at her aunt. “Go home, Miren,” she whispered so only Miren could hear her. “Go back to Chansel. Flee before you end up bent over Sir Rupert’s chopping block yourself. Your reign of terror is through.”

  Miren stood there frozen with her mouth agape, her hands shaking in fists at her sides, a streak of blood painting her from head to waist.

  Cenna offered Miren some advice. “If you wish to escape, my lady, it would be best you depart immediately. The guards will be after you soon.”

  “Someone seize her!” cried Ionni.

  Before anyone could act, Miren shoved her way through the crowd and fled the room, yelling as she went. “Sinners, all of you! Neither you nor your brother are ever going to sit upon the Throne of Roses. I will see to it!”

  What a peculiar thing to say, thought Leta as she began to lose consciousness. How could Meriatis ever sit upon the Throne of Roses? He was dead.

  CHAPTER

  XIII

  THE SORCERESS OF BI ACHE

  The blue flame washed to black and the warmth was replaced by a dire chill. Emethius found himself standing naked within a cave. Rough hewn rock spanned away from him in all directions, vanishing into the inky expanse of the earth. At first he thought he was alone, but a low cackle caused him to turn. Just on the periphery of the gloom stood twelve figures.

  Emethius’s father stood before the rest, with Meriatis to his left and Malrich to his right. The remaining nine had vacant eye sockets. One by one the ghastly figures greeted Emethius with a nod, welcoming him to his new home.

  A mist rolled in from the depths of the cave, and in amongst it came black tentacles, oozing and slick. The tentacles twisted up the legs of Emethius’s greeting party, delving in and out of their skin as if their bodies were made of parchment. The tentacles protruded from their eyes and mouths, contorting their bodies as a puppeteer does a marionette. The twelve figures began to speak in a dozen different tongues, all ancient, all incomprehensible, a discordant chorus of agony and torment.

  Emethius looked down, seeing that the mist had reached his feet. With it came the tentacles
, like a million hungry snakes. There was nothing he could do to fend them off. The tentacles bit at his ankles, burrowing through his flesh, knotting around his bones and coursing up his veins and arteries. He felt his heart go black as his insides were filled with their twisted and knotted bodies. Emethius’s mouth jutted open against his will, and foul words spilled from his tongue.

  “The world will be smothered in brimstone and spoil, and all who remain will bend their backs in toil.”

  A soothing voice echoed through the cave, contesting the will of the Shadow. “Repa maini lotali i motit oni mel nos.” Blue light flared in the darkness, forming a ring of fire around Emethius’s body. The tentacles convulsed in response, and then the flame was upon them, causing them to melt away. Emethius fell to his knees and vomited up the foul taint that had filled his body. The twelves figures vanished, replaced by the comely face of a woman. Emethius blinked, and his consciousness ebbed. He knew nothing but the pale blue light.

  • • •

  “Rewe seupe licoris bap.”

  Emethius awoke gasping for breath. His first instinct was to leap to his feet and seek shelter — the Cul would not be far. But he was so weak he could hardly lift his arms. Standing wasn’t even an option.

  Emethius looked about himself in bewilderment. He was lying atop a down mattress in a small room with a gabled ceiling. The only other furnishings in the room were a stool that rested near the door and a dressing screen that could be used to partition the room. The plaster walls were the color of cream, overlaid with auburn and gold designs that spiraled and looped to resemble sprouting vines; it was the kind of artistry one only found in the estates of wealthy lords. The ceiling was painted black, speckled with splotches of shimmering silver that twinkled like the stars. It took Emethius a moment to realize it was a replica of the night sky.

  “This is definitely not a Cul prison,” he muttered to himself after taking in the craftsmanship. “So, where am I?”

  Emethius pulled aside the sheet and was startled to realize he was naked. His body was crisscrossed with scars. There was a deep puncture scar in his thigh, and a furrow of knotted tissue ran through his right breast. He had a second laceration scar in his shoulder, and a third in his side. But it was the scar in his stomach that caught his attention most — it marked where he had killed himself with his own blade.

  “Tried to kill myself,” he corrected.

  He ran his fingers gingerly over the scar, half expecting it to split open and for black tentacles to come spilling out. The spot was tender to the touch and wreathed in yellow bruising, but it remained closed.

  “How is this possible?” wondered Emethius aloud.

  There was a noise beyond the door, and he sat up quickly. He regretted the action immediately. The old wound in his back awakened with a sudden fury, and a crippling pain galloped through his body. He flopped back onto the mattress gasping for breath.

  A cool hand suddenly pressed against his brow, and for a moment all he saw was a pale blue light, like the color of the sky just after dawn. The spasm receded. The pain vanished.

  “Oft do you find yourself in this position?” said a voice that was sweet to the ears. “In your own land, I imagine you are a warrior of some renown, but perhaps this is due more to boldness than prowess on the field of battle. I have counted no less than five wounds and one grievous scar. It was no small task to keep your soul on this plane of existence.”

  Emethius’s eyes slowly focused on the speaker. His breath caught in his throat.

  The woman standing beside his bed looked much like a talsani, only not. There was something distinctly foreign about the woman, although Emethius couldn’t precisely pinpoint what it was. Her features were longer, more drawn out, as if time had stretched her frame. She was tall, delicate, and beautiful. There was a sternness about her face, and when she smiled, the wrinkles wreathing her lips told Emethius that she frowned more often than not.

  She wore a silk gown that shimmered like wind-swept water whenever she moved. A wool shawl was draped across her shoulders. She clutched it tightly to her body to ward off the chill that seemed to radiate from the walls of the room. Atop her head sat a silver coronet beset by two moonstones. When she drew into shadow, the pale stones issued a faint radiance.

  Feeling embarrassed by his nakedness, Emethius pulled the blanket high about his neck and sat upright with great care. “Who are you? How did I come to be here?”

  The woman laughed gaily, sending her golden hair swaying. “There is a quick answer and a long answer, but I see that there is haste in your eyes, so I will be brief. You are in the city of Bi Ache, Atimir’s palace to be precise. The healing hands of this house have been the only thing keeping you alive.”

  “Bi Ache,” whispered Emethius in wonder. Somehow he had reached his destination. He looked up at her, regarding her with new understanding. “Then you are the Sorceress. Ftoril’s Sorceress. Am I wrong to assume you are one of the Cella?”

  “I am that Sorceress,” she said, taking a seat beside Emethius on the edge of the bed. “Although I am not of the Cella, for none of those people remain. Still, a stalwart I might be. Against cold, against ruin, against the Shadow’s slow and steady creep. Come now, tell me your name, and what business you have in the Valley of the Cul.”

  “I am Emethius, a Soldier of the Faith, and a captain of the Second Legion,” he admitted, seeing no reason to lie. “I have come through many hardships in search of the Sage of Bi Ache.”

  “None dare to venture to his house — the journey is far too perilous.”

  “So I have discovered,” said Emethius, gesturing to the wounds that covered his body. “But I had no choice. I was working with the dragon whelp Ftoril to save Prince Meriatis, but our mission went astray. Ftoril was captured, maybe killed. But before she was taken, she spoke of a cure and a fabled blade. I owed it to Meriatis to finish Ftoril’s mission, however dim my chances of survival might be.”

  She nodded knowingly. “Much that you have said I sensed from afar. I have been watching you and your friend for many days, ever since you entered the forbidden Ador. The gaze of the seeing eyes of the Tower of Red Guard are long.”

  Emethius was baffled by this. “No mortal can see such a distance.”

  She stood, and the stones that beset her crown glowed with a fiery radiance. “Do you not find it peculiar that you are alive? Your wounds were grievous beyond the care of mortal hands, yet somehow you live.”

  Emethius felt the blood drain from his face. She was not of the Cella people, nor was she even a talsani. She was a god.

  Emethius averted his gaze and lowered his chin to his chest. “I apologize for being so bold. I didn’t know. H-h-how could I have known?” he stammered.

  The goddess smiled. “Such keen bravery is not unnoticed, and grants you many privileges that might otherwise be denied. You may speak as you see fit in my presence, but be careful with the words you choose before the master of this house. The Sage may not see your worth so clearly as I do.”

  “May I ask your proper name?” asked Emethius, his eyes still lowered.

  “I have been granted many titles by your kin; the Keeper, the faceless god, the Savior of Vas Perloh, but my given name is Lillian.”

  Lillian, thought Emethius in wonder. The faceless god has a name. He bowed again. “I will praise your name a thousand times, your holiness,” said Emethius, stunned that he was in the presence of so sacred a figure in the pantheon of his faith. “I shall turn all of my purpose toward your will. I will...”

  Lillian lifted Emethius’s chin, forcing him to look into her eyes. “You and I are not equals, Emethius, but I am not to be worshiped and revered. I am akin to the Calabanesi in race, but not in spirit. Do not grovel before me. That is not my will. The Calabanesi would girdle the world in their dominion, while I would have it be free.”

  Emethius said nothing; he didn’t know how to respond.

  She placed the back of her hand against his brow. “I would li
ke you to rest for now. At dusk you and I will have dinner and discuss why you have come here. Until then, I need you to sleep.” She stood, as if to leave.

  “Wait, don’t go,” said Emethius, as a sudden frantic realization raced through his mind. “I wasn’t alone in the forest. My friend, Malrich. Did you find him?”

  “Sleep,” said Lillian, the word sounding more like a command than a request.

  An uncontrollable exhaustion washed over Emethius’s body. He tried to fight it, but it was a losing battle. He could feel every muscle in his body suddenly become relaxed.

  “Sleep,” repeated the goddess, only this time her lips did not move. The voice was in his head.

  Emethius’s body slumped back into the down mattress. His eyelids began to flutter against his will.

  Sleep.

  • • •

  When Emethius finally awoke, Lillian was once again standing over his bed. She gripped his hand, and a coolness cast over his body, driving away all pain and stiffness.

  “Get dressed,” instructed the goddess. “There is something I would like you to see.”

  A white tunic and gray breeches had been set atop the stool. Emethius slipped behind the screen that partitioned the room and quickly dressed. He was surprised to discover that the clothing fit him well.

  Lillian led him from the room and into an open flagstone court. Lilies lined the path that bisected the courtyard, while flowering vines crept up the perimeter walls. Everything had a faint crimson glow. Emethius soon discovered why. Through an archway he spied the setting sun falling into the sea.

  “Only at dusk can one see how the tower got its name.” Lillian motioned to the far end of the courtyard. There stood a marble tower, its steeple rising higher than even the pinnacle of Imel Katan. Emethius recognized it at once; it was the fabled Tower of Red Guard. The setting sun set the white marble stone ablaze with fiery light. Emethius could only guess how the tower still stood after so many centuries of neglect. He supposed it was held aloft by the same magic that seemed to fill the air within the court.