Aching God

by Mike Shel

  The doors of the palace opened inwardly, revealing a dark interior and a lone maidservant, mousy brown hair tucked haphazardly inside a white cap. There was a livid handprint on her right cheek, evidence of recent violent reproof. She held a large gold candlestick, the wick freshly lit. It was the only source of light in evidence.

  “If you would follow me, sirs, madam,” said the servant, timid eyes averted, curtseying.

  “Were you able to make out what was written on the palace wall?” whispered Auric to Sira as they followed the woman.

  “What I could read was ‘and his bloody hermitage.’ You heard that merchant at the docks say something about the Hermit?”

  “Yes. I think we go to meet him. I would guess those words were preceded by something along the lines of ‘Bugger the Hermit,’ or worse. That was doubtless the suspected author out front, deprived of both of his hands.”

  The maidservant guided them in silence down long, unlit halls, the paintings hung on them illuminated for brief moments as they passed by. No doubt they were family portraits and depictions of great events in the history of House Montcalme, Dukes of Kelse for half the life of the empire. At last they came to a large, poorly lit chamber with high ceilings and wallpaper painted with woodland flora and fauna. The first thing that struck Auric was the powerful floral scent of countless bouquets of flowers, the blooms strewn about the floor and ensconced in several dozen brass and crystal vases across the room. A long table lined with high-backed chairs lay at the center, rich settings for two dozen guests and an enormous repast fit for royalty laid out on a linen tablecloth. Two more chairs faced a roaring fireplace, above which hung antique weaponry from the long martial history of Hanifax: swords, polearms, spears, lances, their blades and points all looking quite lethal.

  The diffident maidservant stood near the table, head bowed and silent. After a long while, with Auric wondering if the duke would show himself, he saw a hand emerge from behind one of the hearth chairs, setting a gold goblet down noisily on a marble-topped side table.

  “The commander of the intrepid Duke Yaryx, no doubt?” said the man in the chair, his voice deep and rich.

  “Captain Hironimus Hraea, Your Grace, at your service.” The captain affected a deep, formal bow, holding it as etiquette demanded. He held the position awkwardly for a long moment, waiting for a sign from the duke that he might rise.

  “You have brought the priest with you, as I instructed?” the hidden duke asked after a yawning silence.

  “Yes, Your Grace. Miss Sira Edjani of the Blue Cathedral in Boudun.”

  Sira bowed smartly, quickly, keeping her eyes turned to the floor, as a member of the clergy was obligated to do in the presence of someone like the duke. A few more moments passed. Auric, whose eyes were also turned to the floor, saw Sira elbow the still-bowing captain. The duke had extended a hand from behind his chair. Hraea saw the gesture and scuttled over to the duke, stooping to kiss the ducal ring, then stepped back. The duke stood with abrupt, nervous energy, walked around Hraea, and looked at Sira and Auric standing respectfully quiet by the dining table.

  Duke Emberto was a tall, rail-thin man, his long, thinning hair gray and unkempt, his face unshaven and gaunt. He wore clothes befitting his rank, save that cuffs and collars were frayed, the green color of the fabric faded with age. He was barefoot and did not wear the requisite knee socks traditional for his attire. His toenails were long overdue for attention, as were his filthy and unnaturally long fingernails. His eyes were alight with a fire that would shame a pyromancer. Pinned to his shirt was a large white rose, which he held to his long, narrow nose as he approached, as though its scent somehow nourished him.

  Oh, great danger here, thought Auric. Great, screaming, bleeding danger.

  The man was staring at Auric with a fierce, penetrating gaze, eyes glaring, as though expecting some affront. “And this one?” he said, brusque and impatient.

  Auric bowed and spoke in a voice as calm as he could muster. “Sir Auric Manteo, Your Grace, presently a swordsman of the Syraeic League.”

  “And your home?”

  “Late of Daurhim, a small town—”

  “Seat of the Dyre barony, aye,” spat the duke. “I know it, Sir Auric. I am not yet in my dotage.”

  Auric thought it wise to say nothing more. The duke extended his ringed hand. Auric stepped forward to kiss it. Another interminable silence followed.

  “Yes, yes, enough of the bowing and scraping for now,” the duke said finally. “Let’s take seats at my table. We can speak over dinner.”

  He held his left hand out, indicating the table, which now had three more servants by it, each behind a chair. The servants pulled the chairs out and Duke Emberto walked with long, spiderlike strides to the head of the table. The others’ seats were interspersed along the table, Sira’s and Auric’s on one side, Hraea’s nearer the hearth on the other. The duke sat, and his three guests followed suit.

  “You’ll forgive my wife. The duchess is tired, just rid of a cough. She prefers to remain by the fire if you would indulge her. Isn’t that right, my dear?” This last bit was directed toward the second chair facing the fiery hearth, its occupant hidden from those at the dining table. There was no response.

  “Your Grace,” said Sira, gentle, “I would be happy to share the sacrament with the duchess to dispel any condition that may linger, if it would please you.”

  “It would not,” said the duke in a gruff and unfriendly tone. “We Montcalmes do not believe in troubling the gods with every common ache and sniffle. We have our own cures. This may be the way of the aristocracy in the capital, Miss Edjani, but here on the frontier we are made of sterner stuff. Is that not so, my darling?” Again, this was addressed to the duchess, concealed by her seat back. Auric thought he heard a cough, but couldn’t be certain. The duke snapped his fingers.

  “Alyce, light.”

  The maidservant who had guided them in proceeded to light the candles lining the table, which slowly dispelled some of the gloom. Tall portraits in gold frames hung on the walls of the well-appointed chamber. A number were defaced, either with a knife, or splashed with angrily scrawled profanity. Auric’s mind leapt to the defaced fresco at the Citadel.

  “Too much money is wasted on candles,” commented the duke. “We light areas as they are needed here, rather than making the night into day in every damned room. Too many of the nobility fail to be frugal. It is a disgusting failing.”

  Frugality. Auric surveyed the grand feast laid before them, a meal for four people. It was enough to feed all officers and guests on the Duke Yaryx for a week.

  The duke ripped into a roasted chicken sitting on a platter in front of his plate, then motioned for his guests to help themselves to the gluttonous repast. He gnawed at a thigh and leg attached to one another, juices dripping into his whiskers and onto his shabby coat. He sat back in his chair, chewing mechanically, then noticed Hraea looking at the hanging portraits.

  “My family,” said the duke, gesturing with the chicken bones in his hand. “Portraits of Montcalmes going back, oh, about eighty years in this particular room.”

  Duke Emberto tore off a hunk of bread and stood, walking over to the first portrait of an elderly man standing by an empty throne, hunting dogs at his feet. Auric recognized the throne from his audience with Queen Geneviva. The word “whoremonger” was scrawled in an arc above the portrait subject’s face.

  “My great uncle, a duke also named Emberto, numbered the first. When the queen withdrew the fleet and provincial regiments from the west, he focused the duchy’s fortune into building a standing army and used it to harass our traditional rivals, the Duchy of Valya. Yes, it was Great Uncle Emberto who suggested to Her Royal Highness that Duke Logan’s head would look better mounted on the Mouth of Boudun than his own shoulders. Alas, he had little time to enjoy his victory. A week later, uncle died, engaged in his second favorite
pastime—mid-thrust atop one of his shamefully underage concubines. The man was seventy-eight years old. Nonetheless, our house owes its present prominence in the west to that rutting old goat’s clever scheming.”

  Auric felt what little appetite he had flee him. The duke strolled to the next two portraits, their subjects unrecognizable as their canvases had been shredded.

  “My father, Duke Gromas, grandnephew of randy septuagenarian Emberto. He ruled Kelse for fifteen years before his death in a hunting accident. Next to him is my mother, Duchess Willa. She ruled after my father was killed. I never quite understood how one could be skewered by an arrow and suffer a fatal blow to the head and it still be called an ‘accident.’ Mama was a great granddaughter of Duke Logan of Valya. The marriage was supposed to heal the animus between the families, though gods know why anyone bothered trying, with Valya all but a memory by then. She only reigned a year.”

  “And how did she die?” asked Captain Hraea, curious.

  “I strangled her with the cord from a curtain,” said the duke, before tossing the last bite of bread into his mouth and returning to the table. “Understand it was necessary—the woman needed killing. But this has been true of many of my relatives across our more recent history. Say, the last one hundred and seventeen years…” He gave his guests an exaggerated sidelong, conspiratorial look.

  Long may she reign.

  “Accusations of poisoning, forged wills, incest, worse,” continued the lean duke. “And throughout it all, plots, plots, plots, aimed at deposing us, murdering us in our beds. Our extended family plots. Our servants plot. The clergy plots. Our own subjects plot. You may have met some of them on your ride to the palace. They call me the Hermit…because I never leave. But how can I, with so many knives ready to open my neck around every corner? I grow tired of this endless need for vigilance, but it is the price a ruler—must—pay.”

  He punctuated the last words with sinister embellishment, stabbing out with a table knife, staring off into space. He licked the grease and saliva from his lips, his mind seeming to have vacated his body. His guests sat frozen.

  “The Discord,” he said finally, returned from wherever he had been, “is taken as a prize, I understand. And her piratical sisters the Sea Witch, the Calamity, and the Dark Promise now sail below with the gods of the sea. I commend you, Captain. No small accomplishment. Black Erin captained the Discord. Captured or killed, I care not, just so long as she plagues these seas no more. Popular rumor has it she was grandniece of Duke Logan, or some other distant relation. Ha! The Duchy of Valya strikes at the Montcalmes from its moldering grave! I’m happy to hang the prisoners for you, Captain Hraea, unless you desire the pleasure yourself?”

  “Thank you, Your Grace, no. I’d be grateful if you would see to our prisoners’ punishment. We must sail early. We’re under Her Majesty’s orders to transport Sir Auric and his Syraeic companions to the Barrowlands.”

  “Barrowlands, eh?” said Duke Emberto, his eyes brighter. “This means you travel with a priest of Belu, Sir Auric?”

  Auric felt his heart skip a beat. Hraea looked to Sira, confused.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Auric answered. “Miss Edjani here has that privilege.”

  “You requested she attend tonight for that reason, Your Grace, did you not?” added Hraea. Auric felt an urge to throttle the captain.

  “Yes, of course,” the duke hissed, glaring at Hraea briefly before his eyes lit on Sira. “Miss Edjani, you are gifted in the art of healing, like all of your calling?”

  “I am, Duke Emberto.”

  “Then I must consult with you on a personal matter, if I might.”

  Sira nodded, smiled.

  Calm in the storm, just like Lenda, thought Auric.

  “I am afflicted, priest, with an infestation. An illness the priests in Kalimander, across all of Kelse, have been unable to alleviate or even properly diagnose. I require that you apply your skills to address this ailment.”

  “What are its symptoms, Your Grace?” said Sira without sign of anxiety, while inside Auric was ringing a frantic alarm.

  “Headaches. Constant headaches. Insomnia. The stench of rotting flesh will assail my nostrils, while others smell nothing—it’s the reason I must spend a small fortune on flowers, to keep the stink at bay. And something…eats at me. Insects. Insects, crawling and biting.”

  Hraea craned his neck, apparently seeking out signs of these bites on the duke’s exposed skin. The duke took note.

  “Beneath the skin, Captain Hraea,” the man said, scowling. “Somehow, they have burrowed beneath, leaving no signs of their invasion. And they move ceaselessly. They never sleep. It’s enough to drive a man out of his blessed mind.”

  Indeed.

  “May I approach you, Your Grace?” asked Sira, her lopsided smile kind, full of compassion.

  “You may,” answered the duke, though his eyes were wary.

  The priest stood from her chair with elegance, walked to the head of the table, and placed her palms on the duke’s temples. He jerked away at first, as though readying to bolt from the chamber, but then he submitted to Sira’s touch, his eyes locked on her peaceful face. She closed her eyes, as though reading the pulse in the duke’s head. She winced in pain three, four times. Then she opened her eyes and smoothed the duke’s hair with a gentle hand.

  “What did the other priests tell you, Your Grace?” she inquired, her voice soothing, as though calming a frightened horse.

  “Different things. Some said it was a disease of the heart that Belu could not or would not heal. Some said it was a disease sent by Belu to punish me for my family’s crimes. Some went about a ritual and told me I was cured. All of them liars.”

  Auric’s pulse hammered in his temples as the duke pulled the white rose to his nostrils and inhaled deeply. Auric felt the room shrinking, the marred portraits of dead Montcalmes smirking at him, as though amused by this poisonous predicament. He felt certain a word from either himself or the captain at this moment would unleash disaster, and he willed Hraea’s mouth shut. But what could Sira say to this dangerous lunatic? Finally, she spoke, her words voiced in a smooth, pacifying tone, but without condescension.

  “Doubtless some of them were, Your Grace. Liars. Out of fear, or hopes to appease you. Some likely did not know what else they could say, because they were stupid, or ignorant. I fear I cannot heal this affliction, either. The truth, Your Grace—”

  Auric felt a lethal hand tightening around his heart.

  “—is that you are mad.”

  Oh, Marta, Tomas, Lenda, thought Auric. I’ll be with you soon!

  The duke stared at Sira with boiling intensity, though it was impossible to read the emotion precisely on his lean, grizzled face. Rage? Hate? Confusion? Terror? His eyes were wide, his teeth grinding. Auric was struck by a vision of the duke launching himself at Sira and taking the flesh of her cheek between his teeth. Biting, biting.

  But then Duke Emberto’s face went slack, vacant, as though some dark spirit had left his body. With exaggerated deliberateness, he placed both hands on the table and pushed himself up and away from his plate, the legs of his chair screeching like predatory hawks. He stumbled, catching himself as he turned to the roaring fireplace, weaved his way between the two high-backed chairs.

  “Pardon me, my dear,” he said, patting the hidden figure of the duchess in an absent gesture.

  The duke stood before the hearth, looking up dreamily at the ancient and exquisite weapons mounted in the stone on iron pegs. His hand reached up for a three-headed flail, wavered there in the air for a moment before setting down instead on the pommel of a longsword at the center of the display, in a place of prominence. Fingers closing tight around the grip, he drew the weapon down from the stone with sudden graceful malevolence, swinging it before him in experimental swoops and parries. Emberto turned back to his paralyzed guests, who remained seated
at his sumptuous table. He strolled back to them, the sword still dancing in the space before him as he approached.

  Duke Emberto now stood near Hraea’s chair, resting the tip of the blade on one of the captain’s gold-braided epaulets. Hraea’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, frozen in this moment of peril.

  “Miss Edjani,” the duke said in a voice as calm as a pond on a windless day, “would you please repeat your diagnosis for me?”

  Auric considered his options. He had carried no weapons with him into the duke’s home, as etiquette demanded, and the captain and their host lay across the laden table from him. There was no way he could leap across in time to prevent the aristocrat from laying open Hraea’s exposed neck with the wickedly-sharp, ancient blade. He looked at Sira, willing her to change her words, speak some soothing nonsense to this lofty, lethal madman. The young cleric’s peaceful disposition was unchanged, eyes and crooked smile fixed on the duke.

  “Madness, Your Grace,” she said in a placid voice.

  For a moment, Auric closed his eyes, letting out a long, hopeless breath. Let it be quick, he thought.

  Duke Emberto stared at the priest, the rabid intensity returning to his face. He tapped the flat of the blade on Hraea’s shoulder, as if in contemplation, a hair’s breadth from the man’s jugular. Then, slowly, he began to nod.

  “It is what I suspected,” he whispered, almost wistful. “Mad. One day, Duke of Kelse, the next, reduced to playing in my own excrement. Alas, I have…a duchy to rule and must…do…my…best.”

  Duke Emberto brought the blade down on the table with swift violence, its keen edge biting into the wood, causing all of them to jerk with alarm. He left it there as he retook his seat at the head of the table.

  “Unfortunately, my friends, I have much work to do,” Emberto said with strange joviality, animated. “Our dinner must end. But first, a gift for each of you is in order, I think.”

  He snapped his fingers and two servants came in, bearing a pair of boxes wrapped in red velvet cloth and tied with silk bows. He stood again, grabbing the boxes from the servants, whose own fear was evident in their quavering faces. He handed one box to Sira, whispering something in her ear. Walking back around the table, he handed a larger one to the captain. At that moment, a log popped loudly in the fireplace.