Tyrant’s Blood

by Fiona McIntosh

  In the tumult that followed Valya tipped the remaining two biscuits into the silken pouch she carried. She would dispose of them later. She knew what would unfold now and she had to keep her nerve.

  Valya watched Loethar stare silently at his mother’s face. Dara Negev looked surprisingly as though she were sleeping; her expression was peaceful, belying her final struggle to remain alive. The servants had given Loethar a vivid description of what had occurred and Valya imagined he was, in this uncomfortable silence, trying to conjure a vision of his mother’s final moments. Valya, of course, had deliberately cleaned up Dara Negev’s mouth. The servant thought she was making her presentable to the emperor but her true aim was to remove all clues to the woman’s death.

  She could feel the terrible tension building in the room. Loethar was unpredictable and not easily fooled; she would not be surprised if he simply accused her of murdering his mother. Still, she’d made her choice and would not regret it.

  Finally the silence got the better of her. “Does that bird have to be here with us?” she said, motioning to the raven.

  “He chooses where he goes,” Loethar answered.

  “It’s disrespectful,” Valya said, making sure her eyes were misty, her lips slightly trembling. “Where’s Stracker?” she asked tearfully. The weeping wasn’t hard to achieve; she was genuinely terrified of the brothers. Loethar had walked around his mother’s corpse a dozen times already; the creak of his leather boots and waistcoat the only clue, up until a moment ago, that someone else was alive in this chamber with her…other than her baby. She touched her belly. He was alive. Claiming the throne from the womb. Securing his mother’s future.

  Loethar glanced up at her, startling her out of her thoughts. “How is our child?”

  “Thank you for asking. Today has been very unnerving. But he…he is fine.”

  Loethar nodded. The silence lengthened again before he sighed. “This is the second time in as many days that I’ve had to view the body of someone I care about here in this chapel.”

  He cared about Freath? He’d never said as much before. “I don’t know what to say to you,” she admitted.

  “She died choking, I’m told.”

  “Her heart must have given out. She was struggling to breathe.”

  “She came from people who lived well past their tenth decade. Her mother was ninety-eight anni, her father ninety-nine.”

  Valya shook her head. “I’m no physic. She could have choked on the biscuits she ate.”

  “Biscuits?”

  She nodded. Stick close to the truth, she’d told herself. “I think she might have eaten two. You know how she is about sweet things.”

  “And drank nothing?”

  “No, that’s my point.” Valya sniffed, and dabbed a silk square to her expertly running nose. “She refused the dinch we served. I did say to her that she should take a swallow of it.”

  “Who served it?”

  “Er…it was Roland.”

  “Roland?”

  “Yes. He’s attached to your mother’s retinue.”

  Loethar strode to the door, opened it and gave a muffled order before returning. “Why don’t you sit down?”

  “I can’t. I can’t be still. This is so terrible. I felt so helpless.”

  “Helpless? You, Valya?”

  “Oh don’t you start now, Loethar, please. And stop repeating what I say. I’m weary and your mother is dead. Let’s show some respect.”

  He stared at her, expressionless. “I presume my mother was her usual charming self?”

  Valya nodded. “She was wicked to me. But I would never wish this on her.”

  Vyk flapped his wings and made a loud cawing sound. He lifted from Loethar’s shoulder and swooped near Valya’s head. Shrieking, Valya slapped at the bird, which found purchase on an archway, staring menacingly down at her.

  “What possessed you to seek her out today?” Loethar continued. “You’ve ignored each other for several moons.”

  She tossed her hair in a vexed manner. “As I tried to explain to Dara Negev, I am about to deliver her grandson. I have no family that I care about, I have no one close to talk to—you…” She shrugged. “Well, you’re always busy. I just thought she might talk me through this whole business of childbirth and I really rather hoped that our son might bring us all closer. I wanted her and myself to find a level of friendship. I know we come from different worlds but we have you, our son, the empire in common. We are family.”

  He did not seem moved; in fact, he regarded her with a look that was so veiled she couldn’t tell whether he was amused or startled by her suddenly impassioned manner.

  At the sound of a knock, Loethar turned. “Come,” he called.

  Roland entered, looking terrified.

  “Your highnesses,” he said. “I…words can’t…I’m sorry.”

  “We understand,” Loethar comforted. “This is a very difficult time for us all. Roland, you are attached to Dara Negev’s retinue, am I right?”

  “Yes, my lord, since her arrival in the palace.”

  “Did you make the dinch?”

  Roland looked startled. Then he frowned. “No. It was made by the kitchen staff. I could—”

  “That’s not necessary. Were you present when the dinch was made?”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “Were you present when it was poured for my wife and my mother?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “So who did pour?”

  “I did, Loethar,” Valya said, adding a freshly weary tone to her voice. “I also drank it,” she added before he could move to the next obvious question.

  “Did my mother drink any?” Loethar turned to Roland, ignoring Valya.

  Roland shook his head. “I watched two cups poured and only one was drunk from. Your mother’s cup was full, her dinch untouched. I noticed the empress sipping from her cup before and in her anxiety after your mother…er…” He looked too terrified to say any more.

  Loethar turned. “We checked for poison, did we, my love?”

  Valya sighed. “Ask Roland.”

  “The empress instructed me to take the tray immediately to the apothecary, my lord. The physics have tested the pot, the cups, the remains of the dinch in both cups and pot and can find no trace of poison.”

  Loethar nodded. “The biscuits, Roland. Where did those come from?”

  “From a tin in the chambers of the empress.”

  “I see,” he said, glancing at Valya.

  “Did you bring them to the table?” he asked her.

  “I baked them for you. I brought none to the table but I asked Roland to fetch some when your mother decided on something sweet.”

  Loethar returned his attention to the servant. “Tell me about the biscuits.”

  Roland looked baffled. “They were freshly baked. I brought a few on a plate as instructed. The rest I left where they were in the empress’s chambers.”

  “Were all the ones you brought to the orchard eaten?”

  Roland frowned, looking down. “Yes, I believe they were, my lord. There were only crumbs left.”

  “I ate one,” Valya lied, glad that Roland hadn’t noticed the leftover biscuits. “Your mother ate the rest rather greedily,” she added sourly.

  Loethar ignored her. “Go and fetch the tin of biscuits, Roland, and bring them back here.”

  The man nodded and walked to the door. To Valya’s discomfort, Loethar followed him and quietly muttered something before Roland left the chapel.

  “Biscuits?” she snapped, moving into the theatrics she knew were now necessary. “You don’t honestly think I would—”

  Loethar cut her off. “I don’t know what to think, Valya. Yesterday my mother was hale. Today she lies dead before me.”

  “You don’t seem terribly upset.”

  “Neither do you. And the difference is, I don’t share my emotions with everyone. How I feel is nobody’s business. You unfortunately do show your every mood, which is why these fa
ke tears and quivering lips have me baffled.”

  “Loethar!”

  “No, let me finish,” he said, holding up a hand, his voice annoyingly calm and even. “You and my mother were not friends; you were not even good companions. But as much as you disliked her, Valya, she disliked you.” She noticed he ignored her look of indignation. “I feel no sympathy for either of you. We can’t be forced to like one another but I did hope you could get on.”

  “We did. In fact, today was my effort to try and build some bridges. As I explained, I thought if she could give me some advice, perhaps take more interest in our child, we might go a long way toward being closer. But she said the most cruel things.”

  “Surely that didn’t surprise you.”

  Valya realized she couldn’t win. She made her voice sound weary. “I suppose so, Loethar. I’m very, very sorry for your loss, truly I am.”

  Vyk swooped back to Loethar’s shoulder, calling again. Valya scowled, wishing she’d thought to poison the bird somehow as well.

  There was a second knock at the door and, after Loethar’s command to enter, Roland reappeared, bearing the tin she recognized. He bowed. “Here is the tin of biscuits, my lord.”

  “Good. Open it.” When Roland did so, Loethar leaned in and inhaled. “Mmm, lovely. You baked these?” he said with surprise, turning to Valya.

  She nodded, and maintained wearied tone. “They were for you. I know you like those buttery things. Me, I can hardly bear to smell them in my condition,” she said, rubbing her belly. “Certain foods make me feel ill.”

  He regarded her now with even deeper scrutiny, his expression creasing into a quizzical one. “And still you managed to eat one only today.”

  Valya blinked, but recovered instantly. “I was being polite,” she said. “I’m quite sure it’s why I feel so unwell now.”

  “Ah, and there I was thinking that it was having to sit this close to my mother’s corpse.”

  “Loethar, I don’t want to play your games. I ate a biscuit, I feel ill, your mother’s dead. Where is this going? You think the biscuits are poisoned? You think I killed her?”

  He stared silently at her. Vyk stared intently at her too.

  Valya gave a long sigh. “Loethar, please select a biscuit. Any one.”

  When his gaze narrowed, she sighed again. “I’ll have to hurry you, my love. I really don’t feel terribly well. I make no jest.”

  Turning and staring into the box, Loethar pointed to a biscuit.

  “Roland,” Valya said. “Bring me that biscuit the emperor has chosen, would you?”

  The servant did as he was asked. Valya took the biscuit and very deliberately ate it. As both men watched in silence she made a show of swallowing the final morsel. “Now I shall need a drink and a rest. If I should start to foam at the mouth or suddenly writhe all over the chapel gardens, you will know I am dying from the poison that I put in the biscuits I made for you!” Her voice had turned wintry. She curtsied. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, my lord, I shall retire to my chambers.”

  Valya swept to the door, Roland only just getting there in time to open it. Silently she strode out, her head high in feigned self-righteous indignation.

  It was only when she’d ascended to her chambers, closed the door to her salon and leaned back against it, that she permitted herself to breathe evenly…and to smile with triumph. She’d beaten them. And the old hag was dead.

  Her waters broke moments later.

  Loethar had paced before the same balustrade that ten anni earlier another king had paced for an identical reason. Both had awaited the birth of their son.

  Both had been given daughters.

  “What?” Loethar exclaimed.

  Valya had banished the tribal women from her chambers; she had wanted a Set midwifery team. The eldest of those women now looked lost for words as she stood before her emperor.

  “You have a daughter, my lord,” she said, as reluctantly as she had spoken the words the first time.

  Loethar placed two fists, balled tightly, on the balustrade that overlooked the private courtyard, once a place of play for the Valisar dynasty. He lifted his chin and let out such a roar of anguish that the midwife not only stepped back, but turned and fled into the birthing chamber.

  Loethar placed his fists against his forehead. “I am indeed cursed,” he murmured, his eyes closed.

  The silence lengthened. At last a physic appeared, awkwardly and unsure, from Valya’s chamber.

  “Do you wish to see your daughter, my lord?” he asked, his tone soft, his manner careful.

  “No,” Loethar growled.

  The man cleared his throat. “Perhaps you should, my lord. She is…”

  “What?” Loethar said, opening his eyes, spinning around to face the hesitant man. “She is what?”

  The physic looked pained. “She is sickly, Emperor Loethar.”

  A rueful smile of acceptance ghosted fleetingly past Loethar’s lips. “Will she die?”

  At first the man didn’t reply. Finally he said, “Probably, my lord, if my experience is guiding me correctly.”

  “Then my child is already lost to me. I have no reason to stare at someone soon to be a corpse.” Loethar turned and strode away.

  “My lord…your wife?” the physic risked calling after him.

  “She was lost long ago!” Loethar yelled and all but ran down the palace steps. He ran all the way to the chapel, where he ordered an immediate cremation of his mother’s body.

  Father Briar looked alarmed. “Emperor Loethar, surely a more public mourning time, a proper—”

  Loethar’s expression darkened like a sky gathering for thunder. “My mother was not a public figure. None of the Set people cared about Dara Negev and will not mourn her, Father Briar.”

  “But your brother and—”

  “My half-brother and I will mourn our mother in our own way, Father Briar. Burn her today. I will witness it. I want her ashes by to night.”

  “My lord, that’s not—”

  “To night!” Loethar roared. “Or you’ll go on the pyre with her,” he bellowed and stormed from the chapel.

  Elka could see he knew everything again. She saw it in the blink of an eye as he walked toward her now, looking tense and embarrassed but also like a man unburdened. Ten anni of her life she’d dedicated to this man, a stranger. He had built a new life while learning to walk again, convalescing and returning his body to the fit, strong person he was today.

  Only tiny snippets of his past had revealed themselves over the many moons he had lived in Lo’s Teeth. He had readily admitted that although Regor was definitely not his name it nevertheless resonated with him, so perhaps it was meaningful. He was convinced that he belonged to a family. And they’d all worked out easily enough for themselves that Regor was not of common stock.

  Regor’s wit and charm had worn away her brothers’ reserve and suspicions. They had taught him to ride bareback, to shoot arrows accurately over long distances, and to drink copious amounts of the mountain brew they called Lo’s Fury. Regor had been accepted by her family as a new brother. Even though he was overshadowed in height—even by her mother—and looked nothing like the tall, powerful people he’d joined, he had effectively become one of them.

  The Abbess reached her before he did. “Are you ready?”

  “He already looks different,” she remarked, trying to hide her disappointment.

  “No, Elka, he was different with you. Now he is back to the person he truly was…is.” The woman squeezed her arm and Elka felt the conveyance of sympathy, the older woman’s urging to be strong. “After your grandmother lost your grandfather, she joined us here. Her memory lives strongly among us. You know you are always welcome, if just to talk.”

  “I know, thank you.”

  “He will need to return to where you found him. You must let him go—wherever that is.”

  “I just want to take him home,” she said, finding a soft smile for her companion of the last decade as he
drew closer across the courtyard. He did look changed.

  “His home is not in Lo’s Teeth, dear one. Be warned.” The older woman took her hand away and turned toward Regor. “Welcome back.”

  Elka watched his embarrassment deepen. “Thank you,” he said. “I am back, in more ways than is obvious.”

  Elka felt her composure slipping but she kept it hidden, determined to let the unravelling happen only inwardly. “So what’s your name?”

  He regarded her with bright eyes that, despite all his recent sadness, could never hide their mischief, or their openness. Suddenly, in that pause, she wished she had told him everything: all that she’d felt for him these anni past, the fact that it didn’t matter that he was Set or short, or didn’t know his real name. She loved him. She couldn’t help it.

  “My name is Gavriel,” he said, his voice shaking slightly. “I have a twin brother.” She saw his eyes mist and he looked down. “I…my father was killed, murdered.” He returned his gaze to her and she felt her heart break.

  The Abess stepped away. “You two have much to discuss. Welcome back, Gavriel. I’m glad our Quirin helped you.”

  He turned. “She is wonderful. I am so grateful to the convent and will find a way to repay your generosity.”

  She nodded, smiling, before turning to Elka. “Look after each other,” she said and withdrew.

  “Elka,” he began.

  “No wait. Not here,” she said, finding her courage again. Her own voice was back under control, as was her mood. She was Davarigon: a strong, in de pen dent member of the tribe who needed no man to fend for her, least of all a puny Set man. They were friends. She had saved his life once, helped him forge a new one, and that was that. Now he must return to his life, perhaps his wife! She was afraid to know. “Let’s leave. You can tell me as we travel.”