Reign of Gods (Sorcery and Sin Book 2)

by Justin DePaoli

  What if, however, the smoke came not from the destruction of a forest fire or the pillaging and sacking of a kingdom? What if the Glass Sea was not the only ocean surrounding Avestas to have giants sleeping in its waters?

  This troubled her, but she’d have to circle back around to the subject tomorrow, assuming she still lived. For tonight was a night to dine. Tonight was a night to die.

  Horace Dewn assured her he had all the pieces in place. He said they fit together like flush stones of a fire pit, and they were doubly strong.

  Oriana couldn’t say if she trusted him fully. Probably not, as putting all your faith in someone is a foolish thing to do. People, she’d learned, are imperfect. They might have good intentions, and maybe they even have wickedly cunning minds, but at their core people are fallible.

  Oriana heard soft footsteps behind her. She turned as a young woman in a crimson dress bunched up at her thighs said, “Lady Oriana. The queen is ready.”

  Oriana smiled. “Thank you.” The woman hesitated. She lingered, expecting Oriana to have joined her side as she walked her into the Grand Hall. But Oriana faced the wispy columns of smoke pilfering the pinks and yellows from the sky. She crammed into her thoughts every possible outcome of tonight, of the future. She wondered if Rol was safe, if he’d found Catali. She wondered if the giants had awoken, if her sorcerers had found the remaining dragons.

  She hoped Sarpella remained in her den and brought about no suspicions. She toyed with the idea of death, asked herself if she could accept that fate right now. The answer was the same as it’d been since she’d first posed the silent question as a young girl: absolutely not.

  I hope you do indeed have your pieces in place, Horace.

  Oriana adjusted the silver bangles on her wrists. Those had been given to her courtesy of her sister, as had the diamond pins that held hair in place, and the rope of pearls around her neck. Olyssi herself hadn’t given those items to Oriana, of course—she’d sent servants to do the job. And Oriana knew it wasn’t out of kindness; Olyssi expected Oriana to die that night. The jewelry and niceties were Olyssi’s way of lowering suspicions, but it didn’t work. Oriana knew her sister much too well.

  The Great Hall welcomed Oriana in with a faint smell of emerald wood still lingering from the dais, built only a year ago.

  “Sister,” Olyssi called, rising from her seat at the long clothed table atop the dais.

  Not her seat, Oriana thought. That’s Father’s seat. How dare she….

  “I’m glad you’re here,” Olyssi said, gloom replacing her cheerfulness. “You probably never thought I’d say that, did you?”

  “I can’t say I did.”

  A servant took Oriana’s hand as she climbed a trio of steps onto the dais. Glasses of wine sat on the table, but it was otherwise empty. The buffets edging the hall were empty as well, and Oriana couldn’t so much as smell a single peppercorn, much less cloves of garlic and potfuls of stewed meat. It seemed this feast would have little to eat.

  Bastion sat catercorner to Olyssi, a subtle nod as Oriana made her way around Horace, to a reserved chair pulled away from the table.

  “Lady Oriana,” Bastion said. “A pleasure seeing you again. A greater one seeing you in good health. If even half the stories of your time in Torbinen are true, it’s a wonder you’re alive.”

  Oriana tucked her hands behind her, smoothing out her dress as she lowered herself onto the high-backed chair. “I’m sorry to hear of the Roost, Lord Rook. It’s a… pity.”

  Strangely, Oriana felt at home here in the Great Hall, trading tactful dialogue with Bastion and her sister. At one time—throughout her entire life, really—she had despised politics and all the farces that went with it. Had something changed? Or was it being home—back in Haeglin—that brought her comfort?

  She looked around, a subtle peek this way and that. There must have been two dozen Jackals spread throughout the room, posted at pillars and doors. A handful stood on the balcony above. All of them had their hands on their hilts, prepared for the worst as always.

  Bastion opened his mouth to speak, but a bellowing of trumpets interrupted his thoughts. “What is that?”

  “The last day of Purge the Merchants festival,” Horace said. “It’s time for the closing celebration.”

  Bastion looked disgusted. “Either new trumpeters are needed, or I’ll smash their instruments and replace them with less-intrusive stringed ones. That’s bloody annoying.”

  “I assume,” Olyssi said, drinking copiously and sloppily from her long-stemmed glass of wine, “that Horace has told you everything you need to know? I wish for you to be my adviser on social affairs; you’ve the knack and the heart for it.”

  Bastion grimaced. He seemed to reach under the table. “Enough. I’m in pain, and I’m tired. End it.”

  Olyssi frowned. “Already? I told you I had wished to get her hopes up and then off her. It would have been more fun that way.”

  Bastion snarled. “I don’t much care about fun right now.”

  “Let Savant Freda take a look,” Olyssi said. “I’m sure she can fix it.” She looked at Oriana, wine stem pinched between her fingers. “Oh, sister. I’m sorry—where are my manners? Here I am chatting away when I should be telling you goodbye for the final time.”

  Olyssi reached into her lap and produced a small knife. She sliced it across her own cheek, cutting herself. Flaps of splayed flesh opened up, and blood poured out.

  “Ah!” she gasped. “My own sister tried to kill me! Everyone saw it, right?” She grinned, eyes alit with insanity. “Well, sister, I guess this is… um… goodbye. Hope there’s a hell and you’re in it!” She dabbed a finger into her raw wound and sucked the blood off with a loud pop.

  Then she waited. Nothing happened.

  Olyssi threw her head back, looking at a Jackal upside down. “I said, goodbye. Kill her.”

  Nothing continued to happen.

  Olyssi slammed her glass onto the table and jumped to her feet. Wine surged upward, out of the rim, splashing her fire-gilded armor. “Your queen gave you a direct order. Kill the wench, now.”

  Horace leaned back, steepled hands in front of him. “Sloppy,” he said, eyes aimed at Bastion. “If you desired an efficient assassination, a bolt through her skull would have done the job. Of course, then you couldn’t produce a reasonable story for her death. That could have led to an angry populace, couldn’t it?”

  Hands on the table and panting like a wolf in heat, Olyssi glowered. “Kill him and her, right this instant! If you refuse me, I’ll have Captain Jauren pour boiling water over your cocks, and I’ll shove the sharpest swords up your—”

  Horace rose, prompting Oriana to do the same. “That sounds dreadful. But I’m not sure that will be possible, Lady Olyssi. Please, join us outside.”

  Olyssi balled the tablecloth up in clenched fists. She glanced around haphazardly, erratically. “Is that how it is? Fine! I’ll do it myself.” She reached for the crossbow at her hip, but felt it yanked from her possession. She wheeled around, aghast as one of her sworn protectors—a Jackal—chucked the weapon behind him. It landed with a thud against a pillar.

  Oriana felt her heart leaping into her throat and plummeting back down. Had Horace managed to turn the Jackals? They were as loyal as ants to their queen. She couldn’t imagine a scenario in which the Jackals would refuse an order, much less stage a coup.

  Jameson, she thought. Had Horace… no. She’d pegged Jameson Jauren as a man as loyal as he was mean. He’d never.

  “Stand,” Horace said to Bastion. He nodded to a nearby Jackal. “Assist the queen’s adviser, please.”

  The Jackal hefted Bastion up by his armpits. The former king of the Roost winced, shifting his weight to his left leg.

  Horace stepped off the dais. He motioned for Oriana to join him. “Bring the queen and Bastion Rook.” He made way toward an arched door. A shrill voice stopped him from opening it.

  “Are you mad?” Olyssi shrieked. She wiggled and writ
hed, but no amount of resistance freed her from the Jackal’s grasp.

  “Olyssi,” Horace said, posture straight, voice even and measured, “you are a false queen. I know this to be true.”

  She thrashed about, hair whipping into her eyes, spittle flying from her mouth. Panting madly, she looked up. “I am the queen.”

  “For now,” Horace said, and he opened the door.

  Oriana followed close behind. “What do you have planned?” she whispered. “The people won’t accept my rule if we kill my sister in cold blood.”

  “The people,” Horace replied, continuing across a short hallway and through a door that led to the courtyard, “are about to learn what you already know.”

  Four exits—or entrances, depending on your perspective—anchored the courtyard. Keeping straight ahead would have taken them to the double leaf doors of the throne room, while going left down the cobbles and between raised garden beds would have brought them, eventually, outside the castle.

  Horace went left.

  The sky served as the courtyard’s ceiling, a violet canvas upon which rivulets of gray, stormy clouds passed across. The sun was mostly set, and with its watch ending came a cool, night breeze that raised pimply bumps on Oriana’s exposed arms.

  Rangy orchids and drooping bloodpetals reached for her face as she passed by the gardens. She noticed the trumpets had ceased, their blaring noise replaced by the more constant, heavier sound of a gathered crowd.

  Behind her, Olyssi squealed and shrieked, professing herself to be the queen. The queen, dammit!

  She might call herself a queen, Oriana thought, but she sounds like a banshee.

  Horace led them out of the courtyard and onto the sloped shore of an expansive pond, a center island halving its waters. Stone benches stood on the island; Oriana recalled often sitting on them as a child, watching for fish that didn’t exist despite her father’s promises to stock them.

  Horace hugged the wall of the castle, coming to the final tower on the western side and giving it a wide berth. As they passed that tower, Oriana came to an abrupt standstill.

  The fifth rung was… well, filled. Filled with eyes that had never been seen the castle this close, for only Jackals and those of nobility were permitted on the fifth rung. That no longer seemed to be true.

  The dirty faces of the poor and the full bellies of the middling classes alike were present. Those trapped in the vicious circle of poverty, those blessed with fortune and riches, and those who had enough but not nearly as much as they desired—they all looked on with wide eyes, silent mouths.

  The crowd followed the curving staircase, down, down, down, till Oriana could see no more. She wondered if they filled the fourth and considerably larger rung as well. She thought it likely. The entire kingdom appeared to be out tonight.

  A bulwark of Jackals stood as the proverbial gate, separating the crowd from the Fountain of Faith. Oriana identified only one of the Jackals—mostly because he was the only one without a helmet. Well, that and your eyes don’t forget the sight of evil.

  Captain Jameson Jauren faced Horace, then turned to the crowd. He had a long tube of parchment tucked under his armpit. “People of Haeglin—”

  “The queen’s there, I see her! Look!”

  “Not dead, not dead! I see her too.”

  The crowd rabbled, most of the chattering indistinct.

  “People of Haeglin,” the captain repeated, this time with a booming voice that resonated over and silenced the populace. “Trumpeters called for your attention, and criers spread word that the queen was dead. Yet”—he gestured behind him—“here she stands. Understand, good people of Haeglin—the greatest kingdom in this world—that the queen is dead, for she is illegitimate.”

  More chattering, fewer accusations of being misled, even fewer claims that a culling would take place. There were more gasps, though, and numerous turns of heads, neighbors asking one another what this could mean.

  Captain Jauren unrolled the tube of parchment, revealing two large rectangular pieces of yellowed stationery. “I have in my possession two wills, each bearing the name of the late Raegon Gravendeer. In this one”—he held up the left will—“Lord Raegon Gravendeer names his youngest daughter, Olyssi Gravendeer, heir to the Grateful Throne and grants her ladyship of the Gravendeer family.

  “In this one”—he thrust forward the right will—“he names his eldest daughter, Oriana Gravendeer, heir to the Grateful Throne and grants to her ladyship of the Gravendeer family. This is the original will.” He lifted the other document. “This blasphemous document is a forgery.”

  “You lie!” screeched Olyssi, lunging forward. The Jackal yanked her back. “You lie! My father knew what was best for this kingdom, and it’s not my wench of a sister.”

  Jameson extended an open hand to a nearby Jackal. The guard placed two small stacks of papers in Jameson’s hand.

  “These documents have been signed by Raegon Gravendeer; these by the false queen, Olyssi Gravendeer. Pass these out, show them to everyone! They’re old and meaningless now. I want you to look closely at the G in the Gravendeer name. Notice that Raegon’s has two long, curving tails. On every document, every signature he has ever placed, this is true.

  “Now look at Olyssi’s. Hers are similar to be sure, but only the top tail is long and curved; the bottom is short and ends abruptly. Do I speak the truth?”

  As the documents were passed through the crowd, those who read them—those who could read—nodded their heads. Some affirmed the captain’s question with a loud, boisterous “It’s true!”

  “Now,” Jameson said, “come forward. All of you, come forward—orderly, orderly! Read the signature of these wills. The true will, the original will, has Raegon Gravendeer’s signature. The forged, blasphemous copy is clearly Olyssi Gravendeer’s signature. Do I speak the truth?”

  The horde of women and men, children perched atop their parents’ shoulders and clinging to their mothers’ hands and fathers’ legs, they all approached in semichaotic fashion. Yet most were respectful, keeping in mind the little ones and those of frail bones and old age.

  “It’s true,” someone said. “She’s a false queen.”

  “A liar!” another put in, squinting and trading glances between the wills.

  “My wife, I told her, I told her! Lady Oriana is the queen, the rightful queen.”

  Horace faced Oriana. “I never miscount my pieces once they’re in place.” He smiled. “The queenship is yours, Lady Oriana.”

  Oriana played with her bangles, consternation dragging her through every plane of emotional existence. She stepped forward, ignoring her dried throat. Ignoring her pulsing temples. She came to Captain Jauren and then took two more steps, positioning herself between a pair of Jackals. She stood before the crowd, some so close to her they could touch her—but they didn’t.

  “My father,” she said, and then stopped. Her eyes swept over the endless crowd, this way and that, that way and this. She swallowed and started again, this time speaking in a heavier, more resonating voice.

  “My father was a great man, and I think you will all agree with that. I promise I will strive to be his equal… better than him, if I am able.”

  “Will there be war, Lady Oriana?” a woman cried.

  Oriana looked for her, but couldn’t tell from which mouth the question came. “War?”

  “With Plorgus, milady,” said a man. “The Plorgus queen was assassinated, right here, in our good kingdom! Did your sister do it? Did she doom us?”

  Oriana thought that few, if any, of her father’s teachings about politics and kingship had left an indelible impact. But she recalled the way he had subtly and effortlessly shifted from topics whose narrative he could not control to those he could.

  She had only bits and pieces of knowledge regarding Maya Plommen’s assassination, and she certainly couldn’t assure the people that war could be avoided. But when it came to Olyssi… there was plenty she could do there.

  “My sis
ter did not doom us, but I know that she hurt many of you. She scared all of you. Justice must be carried out, and it will be.”

  “Hang her!” someone suggested.

  “Drive nails through the wench’s hands.”

  “Break her toes, then her fingers, then her neck!”

  Oriana lifted a pacifying hand up to the people. Her people. “Cruelty will not solve our problems. If my sister must die, she will be executed, not tortured. She will receive a trial; all people of Haeglin, guilty though they may seem, will receive a trial henceforth.”

  No one argued with this stance, at least not audibly.

  “The night is getting late,” Oriana said. “Go to your homes if you have them, and if you do not, sleep tonight knowing that soon you will. Eat your suppers and fill your bellies if you are so fortunate, and if you are not, hear the growls and feel the pains but know I intend to take care of every man, woman and child of this kingdom. I promise to you all that I will be a queen like no other.”

  The smudged nose of a little girl, her cheeks caved in, arms thin as bird legs, caught Oriana’s eye. With sights like that, Oriana knew she would keep her promises. She wouldn’t let her people down. She would change Haeglin.

  She would change the world. So long as the world was still intact to change.

  The smell of burning pine was stronger now, and the smoke above the Gape thicker.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Osseus drifted lamely above the trees while Gynoth fought with a map he regretted unfolding while on the saddle of an in-flight dragon. He finally managed to pin the map down, holding it firmly against the saddle horns.

  I told you we were lost, Osseus said.

  “We are not lost.” He scoured the map and muttered, “Where the hell is this forest?”

  Words of a lost man.

  “Here,” Gynoth said, finger tracing from one point on the map to another. “Which means…” He sighed. “It means I need a new bloody map. Keep going. It should thin to a point sooner or later.”