The Promised Lie

by Christopher Nuttall

  Emetine nodded, curtly. Isabella would have felt pity for her – sleeping on the stone floor, bound, gagged and naked, couldn’t have been any fun – if she hadn’t known what Emetine had tried to do. Seducing someone was one thing, but using a love potion and dark magic to do it was quite another. She hadn’t forgotten – or forgiven – what she’d felt when she’d sniffed the haze herself. Emetine was going to answer Isabella’s questions, one way or the other.

  Isabella knelt down and carefully removed the gag, half-expecting ... something to snap at her. The Red Monks had magic, but it didn’t work like any magic she’d ever studied. She found it hard to believe that it was that far beyond her comprehension, yet without a chance to study it she was as blind as a magic-less mundane. It was a droll reflection of how mundanes – even powerful kings and princes – might feel when facing magic. It was a force beyond their understanding, let alone their control.

  “Water,” Emetine gasped. “Please.”

  Isabella took the water gourd from her belt and allowed Emetine to take a gulp. “Don’t take too much,” she warned. No one had fed or watered the prisoner. Emetine had been left strictly alone in her cell. Isabella had threatened the guards with unspeakable fates if they dared enter the chamber without permission. “You haven’t drunk anything for hours.”

  “I know,” Emetine said. She shifted, slightly. “Can you untie me?”

  “Not yet,” Isabella said. She sat down on the wooden bench, trying not to sniff. The air smelt foul. “I want some answers.”

  Emetine glowered at her. “To what?”

  Isabella felt her temper snap. “Don’t take me for an idiot,” she said, coldly. “You used magic to break into the prince’s chambers and ...”

  She broke off. Emetine was starting to giggle, hysterically.

  “Magic? You think I used magic?” Emetine smirked at her. “What makes you think I used magic?”

  “You entranced the guards,” Isabella reminded her. “And you seduced the prince ...”

  “I waved my breasts under his eyes,” Emetine said, sardonically. “Most men can’t think when they see a pair of breasts. All the blood drains out of their big heads and pools in their little heads.”

  “It was more than that,” Isabella said. She held up a hand and summoned a flame, allowing the fire to dance on her palm. “What did you do?”

  “You’re a man,” Emetine said. She sniffed, disdainfully. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  Isabella blinked, surprised by the abrupt non sequitur. She’d been called a man before – or a man in a woman’s body – but almost always from men who’d made passes at her and been turned down flat. It was the first time she’d been called a man by another woman. Most women had little difficulty in seeing through her male garb, even though men rarely noticed her gender until it was pointed out to them. And yet, it didn’t sound like she was being complimented. It sounded more like a blunt insult.

  “I was a woman, the last time I checked,” she said, dryly. “Why do you think I wouldn’t understand?”

  Emetine shot her a sly look. “Ah, but you’re a woman who dresses like a man. Do you even have a dress? Have you ever worn one in your life?”

  “Yes,” Isabella said, shortly. She’d never been fond of formal dresses, but she’d worn them before she’d been kicked out of the family and ordered to leave the Golden City. “Do you want me to pull down my pants?”

  “You misunderstand,” Emetine said. “You are a man in every way that matters.”

  “I know men who would disagree with that,” Isabella said. She’d met hundreds of men who’d doubted her competence until she’d rubbed their noses in it. “Why do you think differently?”

  Emetine smiled. “You see, you’ve been taught man-magic. You think like a man.”

  Isabella frowned. “Man-magic?”

  “Magic as studied and practiced by men,” Emetine said. “Physically, you are a woman; mentally, you’re a man.”

  “I see,” Isabella lied. Magic worked the same, more or less, for men and women. There were a handful of spells that could only be cast by men and others that could only be cast by women, but it wasn’t hard to rewrite them so the opposite gender could use them. Man-magic? She’d never even heard of such a concept. “What do you mean?”

  Emetine smiled, again. “Men are all about imposing themselves on the world,” she said, seriously. “They think in terms of control, of controlling everything from their lands and their animals to their women. Deep inside, every man wants to control women, control everything. Man-magic is about taking those desires and making them real.”

  “If that was true,” Isabella said slowly, “surely every woman in the Golden City would have been enchanted to obey men.”

  “I wondered where your accent came from,” Emetine said. She sounded as if she thought she’d scored a point. “How did you end up here?”

  “None of your business,” Isabella said. She doubted the information would do Emetine – or anyone – any good. “But do carry on.”

  “Men build houses and bridges and plant fields and ... and generally impose themselves on the land,” Emetine said. “Man-magic is nothing more than an expansion of that, really. It is a form of control over one’s surroundings.”

  “Really,” Isabella said. She rather doubted Emetine understood what she was saying. “And is that a bad thing?”

  “It can be,” Emetine said. “They’ve taught us to do the same thing, you see. Women can build homes and plant fields and ... and cast spells, just like the men. They don’t see their own power because they’re too busy pretending to be men.”

  She gave Isabella an odd little smile. “Female-magic is different, don’t you know?”

  Isabella said nothing for a long moment. She’d never heard of completely separate fields of magic ... indeed, she could see a number of oddities in Emetine’s words, a number of points that didn’t quite make sense. And yet, there was something about the quiet confidence with which Emetine spoke that made it impossible for Isabella to dismiss Emetine’s words out of hand. Emetine believed what she was saying ...

  “Men impose their will on the land,” Emetine said. “We live in harmony with it. Men control the forces of nature; we allow them to guide and shelter us. Men write their own songs and sing them; women find the tune and sing along. It’s a bit of a mixed metaphor, but ... I’m sure you get the idea.”

  “I don’t,” Isabella said, shortly. “What did you do to Prince Reginald?”

  “He wanted me,” Emetine said. “And the magic swept him along.”

  “Really,” Isabella said.

  “Yes,” Emetine said.

  She paused, dramatically. “We appeal to the universe, to the forces beyond human ken,” she added. “And they grant us their blessings.”

  Isabella’s eyes narrowed. “What forces?”

  “The forces that guide the universe itself,” Emetine said. “We call and they answer.”

  Isabella met her eyes. “If this is true,” she said, “why haven’t I heard anything about it before?”

  Emetine snorted. “What do men fear? Powerful women. How many men fear you?”

  She shrugged, struggling against her bonds. “Think about it,” she said. “The Grand Sorcerers taught a specific kind of magic to magicians, while systematically destroying any hints of other kinds of magic. They destroyed cults and misfit groups that refused to toe the line, wiping them out and concealing all evidence of their existence. The Empire even propagated false religions to give the people something to worship, rather than reaching out to what lies beyond. And now the Empire is gone.”

  And now all sorts of things are going to come out of the shadows, Isabella thought. She remembered Kingsley’s story – and Alden’s reports – and shivered. Who knows what’s going to happen while we’re battling for the throne?

  She took a breath. “Who taught you this?”

  Emetine smiled. “You don’t think I could learn on my own?”


  Isabella shook her head. She’d heard enough about how the Summer Isle treated women – even noblewomen – to doubt that Emetine had been taught more than the basic womanly skills by her family. It was quite possible she didn’t even know how to read and write, even though the lowest serving girl in the Golden City was taught as a matter of course. A girl whose prime function was to marry well and bear the next generation didn’t need to be taught anything else. It was a chilling thought. If she’d been born without magic, so far from civilisation, it would have been her fate too.

  “Very true,” Emetine said. “The Red Monks taught me.”

  “Ah,” Isabella said. “And what are they?”

  “They are the servants of Dusk,” Emetine said. “And they are here to herald a new era.”

  “And they have magic,” Isabella said.

  Emetine showed a flash of anger. “Haven’t you been listening? They draw their power from their lord!”

  Isabella took a moment to compose herself. “What did they teach you?”

  “A few rites, a handful of prayers,” Emetine said. “And a few offerings ...”

  Understanding clicked, suddenly. Isabella leaned forward. “You murdered your husband.”

  “He was going to put me aside again, soon,” Emetine said. The bitterness in her voice was almost palpable. “Why should I not have killed him?”

  Isabella scowled. On one hand, she knew the consequences of King Edwin’s death had been horrific. On the other, she understood precisely how helpless Emetine must have felt. She’d been little more than a pawn in her family’s power play, battered between her father, her brothers and her husband. Isabella had hated being her father’s pawn and she’d had far more options to resist than the powerless Emetine. Her disownment hadn’t been the end of the world.

  Poor bitch, she thought. And yet ...

  “I would have felt sorry for you, if you hadn’t tried to seduce Prince Reginald,” she said, tartly. She doubted Reginald would complain about King Edwin’s murder. As long as the king had been alive – and as long as there was a faint prospect of producing a male heir – King Romulus’s claim to the Summer Isle would remain inactive. “You would have broken him.”

  Emetine met her eyes, defiantly. “And men don’t break women?”

  “That isn’t an excuse,” Isabella said. “Now tell me ... what exactly did you do?”

  She listened, carefully, as Emetine stumbled through an explanation, but very little of it seemed to make sense. She’d taken some of her husband’s blood, then ... simply given it to a messenger, who’d taken it out of the city. And then, she’d waited for her husband to die. It made no sense. Something must have been done, but by whom? The Red Monks? They were the only logical suspects. What were they?

  “Prince Reginald wants to keep you alive,” she said, when she’d finished picking Emetine’s brains. She needed to sit down and think about what she’d been told, then ... then what? “If you ...”

  Emetine laughed, bitterly. “I’m not a person to him, am I?”

  “If you were a man, you would have been beheaded by now,” Isabella pointed out, sharply. It was churlish to complain about someone deciding to keep one alive, although she understood Emetine’s point. Even now, even after a blatant attempt to subvert the Crown Prince, she wasn’t being treated seriously. “And if it was up to me, you would be beheaded.”

  “And yet, it isn’t up to you,” Emetine said. “Tell me, do you think one of his male counsellors would have his opinion dismissed so quickly?”

  Isabella shrugged. As far as she knew, she was the only person – apart from Reginald himself – who knew what had happened. Reginald would definitely want to keep it that way. The mere rumour that he might have had his head turned by magic would be destructive, even if it wasn’t entirely true. It would suggest weakness, a failure of masculinity ... it would turn him into a laughing stock. The cold truth – that anyone who’d caught a sniff of the haze would have been affected – would be meaningless, compared to the chance to weaken the prince’s grip on power.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “But he does have good reason to keep you alive.”

  “To use me,” Emetine said, bitterly. “If he marries me – and kills my brother – he gets the lands.”

  “Probably,” Isabella said. The confirmation that Havant Hereford was alive was useful, if annoying. “But if he kills both of you, wouldn’t he get the lands anyway?”

  “It would depend, I suppose,” Emetine said. She looked away. “Dear old Dad killed most of the people who might have had a claim.”

  Isabella felt another flicker of sympathy. She and Emetine weren’t that different, she supposed. They’d both had fathers who’d sought to use them, although Isabella’s father had been more interested in pushing her into a powerful position, rather than using her for breeding stock. And Isabella had been able to get away. She dreaded to think what would have happened to Emetine if she’d been caught in flagrante delicto. She would have been lucky if she had merely been kicked out to starve.

  “Listen to me,” she said. She reached out and forced Emetine to look at her. “I’ll be back soon. You’ll be moved to more suitable quarters, but kept under heavy guard. If you do anything, and I mean anything, to excite suspicion, you will be chained to the wall and kept chained up until we decide how to dispose of you. Or I’ll simply turn you into granite.”

  “It must be nice to have power,” Emetine said. She looked oddly wistful. “Is it good to be able to defend yourself?”

  “It has its moments,” Isabella said. “Is it good never to have to fear punishment for your misdeeds?”

  She rose and walked out of the cell, closing it behind her. Emetine would have an uncomfortable time of it – Isabella hadn’t bothered to untie her – but there was no way she could be allowed to roam free. If it had been entirely up to Isabella, Emetine would never have been allowed to wake up. The Red Monks had changed the rules. There was just no way to be sure she was harmless.

  And yet, the Red Monks are men, she thought. Or are they?

  The thought startled her. Yet, once it had passed through her mind, it refused to leave. The Red Monks wore cowls, if the witnesses were to be believed. There was no reason it had to be a man under the red cloth, was there? A woman could easily pass for a man if her face and body were hidden. Isabella had passed for a man without bothering to cover herself so completely. The assumption that the Red Monks were all male would be more than enough to keep anyone from looking too closely.

  She walked up the stairs slowly, mulling over what she’d been told. Emetine had spoken the truth, Isabella thought, but it was only what she believed to be true. It was possible that everything she’d said was true, yet it was also possible that the Red Monks had told her flattering lies. Emetine would want to believe there was a particularly feminine power that she could use, a power her father or husband couldn’t claim for themselves. And Isabella knew from bitter experience that conmen depended on their targets wanting to believe the lies.

  And yet, Emetine did have power, Isabella reminded herself, as she stepped into her bedroom. There was some truth in what she was saying.

  Prince Reginald looked up from a sheaf of reports. “Welcome back,” he said. “I was getting bored.”

  “You had plenty of reports to read,” Isabella said, dryly. The prince had clearly called for the reports. By now, everyone would know he’d been in her bedroom. Hopefully, most of them thought she was a man. There was nothing strange about two men sharing a bedroom, if one of them had to vacate his own at short notice. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’ve felt better,” Reginald said. He gave her a rueful smile. “I can’t believe I was such a fool!”

  “You were drugged,” Isabella said. She didn’t waste her time being sorry for men who got drunk and then ran into trouble, but it wasn’t fair to blame a drugged man for what he did while under the influence. Besides, Emetine had been in control. “Did you make sure to drink plenty
of water?”

  “Yeah,” Reginald said. “I ...”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Isabella said. “She had some quite interesting things to say.”

  She sat down and went through everything, scribbling down notes to herself as she spoke. She’d have to make sure to send Alden a full report – and a request that he dug through the archives for anything that might collaborate Emetine’s story. Isabella had never heard of anything like it, but she did know that cults and small religious groups were regularly hunted down and destroyed. The official reason was that they practiced human sacrifice – and other crimes against the natural order – yet she couldn’t help wondering if there was another reason.

  “The Red Monks were destroying temples and killing priests,” Reginald said. “I’ve had quite a few complaints.”

  “Then we should investigate,” Isabella said. She smiled, faintly. “But I’ll put Emetine somewhere safe, first.”

  If I can find such a place, she thought, sourly. There might not be anywhere safe now.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “This isn’t what I signed up for,” someone muttered.

  Big Richard nodded in agreement as the queue slowly advanced towards the alleyway. The handful of whores they’d been able to find, when they’d been allowed to leave the camp and enter the city, didn’t look very appetising. Their pimps didn’t look very decent either, although they’d been smart enough not to start overcharging the mercenaries. A horde of horny – and heavily armed – men weren’t going to tolerate being told that prices had doubled or tripled since Prince Reginald had taken the city.

  “I haven’t been paid in four days,” someone else muttered. “When are we going home?”

  “And this city is boring,” Big Richard muttered himself. Allenstown wasn’t Havelock or even Humber. There was very little to do, after dark. “When are we getting paid?”

  He looked towards the castle, feeling a hot flash of anger. He’d been a mercenary long enough to know that whoever paid for his services called the shots, but what happened when the money wasn’t paid? Lord Robin might be willing to wait for his promised lands – and Big Richard had to admit that the mere prospect of owning lands was better than payment in hand – yet there were limits. How long was Lord Robin prepared to wait?